A Promise of Peace
by Mazkeraide
Summary: Forty years ago, a horrible war ripped five nations apart. Their kings gathered together and swore peace everlasting. But now that a new generation is rising to rule, will that peace be upheld?
1. Prologue

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**Prologue**

Forty years ago, five nations began fighting each other over a scrap of mountainous land that touched all of their borders.

Kelline, the seafaring nation to the south, technically owned these lands. However, the king and his people were busy with their fishing and their trade, and had little to do with the mountains. Why should they, when they had the beautiful plains and lowlands to inhabit?

Kelline was easily the wealthiest of the five nations. It had begun as a small fishing village, which had become prosperous when it attracted the attention of Ivon the Conqueror. Ivon had built up the strategic port into a city, which he called Kellineton. His people moved in and spread out, and soon small towns and farms dotted the plains. The discovery of technology like the plow accelerated their growth, and soon the entire land, outside of the port cities, was farmland. Kelline traded its agricultural goods and its fish, and soon it had built up an impressive merchant fleet. Ivon the Conqueror died, but his family continued to rule for nearly two hundred years. His ruling descendant at the time was named Yurick, and he was one of the strongest rulers the nation had had.

Pynterre also bordered the sea, but it had a small coastline and lacked Kelline's agricultural advantage. Its location to the west put it out of range of the temperate rains to the south, and it was thus desert country. Pynterre was the least organized of the five nations, for its government consisted of a council of opposing thanes who ruled various nomad groups.

Still, Pynterre found its own means of trade. Legend had it that years before, a prince of Tribe Erril found himself wandering in the desert during a rare lightning storm. Of a sudden, lightning struck the ground at his feet, knocking him unconscious. When he came to, he was lying on a pool of glass. Inspired, he rushed home and slowly developed the art of glassblowing, which he proceeded to teach to the other tribes. Pynterre became renowned for its fine stained glass, and soon orders poured in from around the world for new windows. Pynterre's small coastline was converted into a single large port, where bustling trade bolstered the nation's economy until it was nearly as rich as Kelline.

Idaarolaa was nestled in the mountains north of Pynterre, part of the chain that contained the range in question. It was the smallest and poorest of the five nations, but it was rich in education. Idaarolaa had the best schools in the world, and nobility from around the world sent their children to be educated there. Still, despite its weak military, Idaarolaa was left in peace, largely because of rumors that its royal family had a strain of magic. The rumors had yet to be proven, but they hadn't been disproven either.

Besides their schools, Idaarolaans were also well known for their skill with wood. They carved portraits, stories, and beautifully shaped words into woods like mahogany, oak, and maple. Like Pynterre's glassware, Idaarolaan wood was found only in the richest of homes, and it signified wealth.

Unfortunately for the Idaarolaans, the rocky terrain on which they lived gave rise only to tough, scraggly trees whose wood was nearly impossible to carve. The Idaarolaans, therefore, imported most of their wood from Speroa, the wooded nation in the east. Because the wood had to travel over mountains, it was expensive, and the Idaarolaans found themselves paying more for the wood than they were being paid for what they carved it into. Perhaps out of pity for the poor country and its economy, the other nations began paying higher prices for the education their children received there, and that was enough for Idaarolaa to break even.

Speroa was far to the east, barely sharing a border with Kelline, but share it did. As mentioned, Speroa was densely wooded, and it was made up of small towns separated by large stretches of thick forest. Legend had it that this forest was home to all manner of odd creatures: phoenixes, unicorns, gryphons, fauns, witches, even dragons. Its people were thought still stranger, for rather than destroy the thick forest they lived in, they lived _in_ it. They built their towns in treetops, nestled snugly amid the branches. Any path that cut through their forest was made only for traders, who were highly uncomfortable taking rope bridges across large distances. A huge network of rope bridges connected every small town to its neighbors and the capital city, which was a marvel to see. Thousands of people, hundreds of buildings, even a palace, all suspended among tree branches. And still it was sturdy as a rock and withstood the powerful storms that often blew up from the mountains.

The people of Speroa were said to have prehensile toes, like apes, but as they always wore shoes in the presence of foreigners no one really knew. They were born climbing trees, and if they fell from the branches they were given the responsibility of climbing up on their own. Few ever fell, and only a handful of Speroans knew the feel of earth beneath their feet.

Speroa's export was lumber, and even that was odd about them. Superstitiously they cut wood only in a certain part of the forest, and once they had felled a tree they planted a sapling and tended it. Some argued this was a religious practice; others, that it was a practical matter: without the trees, Speroa had no export, and without export, it had no economy. All they were doing by replanting was insuring their own future.

The final nation was Ilia, a country of miners and shepherds. It was located between Speroa and Idaarolaa, and where it wasn't mountainous it consisted of rocky plateaus. The terrain was good for their hardy mountain goats and sheep, which produced wool and dairy that were the envy of the other nations. Unfortunately, the terrain was not particularly conducive to agriculture, and all grains had to be imported from other countries. This chafed at the Ilian people, for they were proud and did not like to be beholden to anyone.

However, the Ilian morale boosted when large quantities of gold, silver, and gemstones were discovered beneath its rocky soil. The economy shifted from mainly exporting dairy products to mining and exporting precious jewels. Their largest importers were Pynterre and Kelline- Kelline because it was rich, and Pynterre because it loved beauty. Pynterre also entered a military alliance with Ilia, although that is not yet important.

The war began with Ilian miners. One day as they delved through the mountains along the Kellinean border, a miner struck gold, literally. The mine expanded in that direction, and before long it was discovered that what this miner had uncovered was merely the tip of a rich vein of gold that stretched through Kelline's mountains. Immediately a debate began among the king's councilors.

"This gold will make us rich!" cried one.

"We cannot take it! It belongs to Kelline, and robbing that country will alienate a great trading partner," argued another.

"They are not even using those mountains, and they never will! Kelline is rich enough on its own! It does not need this gold like we do!"

"It does not matter! We cannot betray Kelline in this way!"

However, the first councilor's words swayed the king, and before long Ilia opened extensive mines in the Kellinean mountains. This continued for years until the Ilians accidentally collided with a small Kellinean mine of which they were unaware. The owner of the mine, a local baron, reported immediately to the king in the hopes of gaining greater land and status. He received neither, and instead sent his three sons away to the war he had begun.

Unfortunately, the second Ilian councilor was the correct one. King Yurick became extremely angry and immediately ordered an embargo against Ilia. Ilia, unfortunately, could not get enough food from other countries, and knew that this embargo meant the death of its people. So Ilia did what any right-thinking nation would do- it declared war on Kelline. Kelline retaliated by declaring war on Ilia, and Pynterre was forced to declare war on Kelline. For nearly two years only these three countries were involved- Ilia fighting in the mountains, Pynterre along its river border with Kelline, and Kelline on two fronts. Then Ilia made a costly mistake. It invaded Idaarolaa.

Idaarolaa was a peaceful country. Its king never would have declared war, even in the event of invasion. It was the center of knowledge of the world, and all of a sudden it was occupied by Ilia.

Speroa got involved at this point. Idaarolaa was their close trading partner, and many of Speroa's citizens had attended Idaarolaan schools. And so Speroa invaded Ilia from the east, and soon full-fledged war was underway.

Five years, four dead princes, and two dead kings would pass before the war ended finally. It was, of course, an Idaarolaan who first proposed the idea of a peace council. He was a prince named Gregor, and he traveled to each country to deal with its king alone. During his travels, his own father was brutally murdered, and he became king, although he did not quit his travels for a proper coronation.

His proposal was simple: We gather at the University in Idaarolaa, and we talk this out.

Every king, even the warlike Yurick of Kelline, agreed to meet there. And so, in the spring of the year 3045 since the creation of the world, five monarchs, their families, and their councilors gathered in Idaarolaa. A ceasefire was ordered until such time as the council adjourn, and each side hoped the war would not begin again after this meeting.

The personages involved in this meeting were as varied as the countries they represented. Yurick of Kelline was a tall, redheaded man fond of drink and song. Like his father before him, he had a thick red beard, a fat red face, and a huge belly that presumably was also red, although no one had confirmed this. He was jovial above all things, although he angered quickly and forgave slowly. Before this war he had never had any experience in actually waging war, and he had found he enjoyed it immensely. He brought with him his wife, Elisbet, and his youngest son Frederich. His other two sons had been lost in the war, and though of course Yurick mourned them, he was secretly glad. His oldest had been extremely crafty and unlikable, and his middle son incompetent and foolhardy. Frederich, as the youngest, was unprepared to rule, but he showed promise as a leader, both in the military and in court.

Pynterre's entire council of thanes came together, but were forcefully informed that only one of them could enter.

"We cannot deal with the opposing interests of so many from one country," King Gregor said. "This meeting is difficult enough with one representative from each country. Pick one of your own to represent you, and he may tell you whatever happens after each meeting."

The thanes withdrew to decide on a representative and at last picked a man named Arefi, a member of Tribe Tryggin, to represent them. Arefi was known to listen well and remember everything, so the thanes chose him so as to get the most thorough account of each day. But besides this obvious reason, Arefi was a good choice. His father had been a powerful, outspoken thane years ago, and Arefi had the same charisma and intelligence when he spoke. He was, however, softspoken and mainly quiet, and therefore the other thanes regarded him as weak and vacillating. In this respect they were wrong, and after this meeting ended Arefi would go on to lead the thanes for many years.

Gregor of Idaarolaa was also quiet, but his was not the quiet of humility, but the quiet of pensiveness. In a nation of scholars, he had been raised a scholar, and now as a scholar he ruled. He was knowledgeable in many affairs and could speak quite convincingly to others, but he was painfully shy and had trouble working with people. His earlier boldness in calling this council had been prompted by desperation and desperation alone; before the war, or after it, he would never have had the courage. It was also rumored that his line carried magic, but despite close scrutiny no one ever saw him show any signs of preternatural power.

From Speroa came King Ethelaine, and she was a force to be reckoned with. Her father and brother had also been lost in the war, and she had taken the throne as his only possible heir. A clerical error had announced her as King Ethelaine, rather than Queen, but she had never corrected it. She liked the title King, as it gave an aura of power to her that no Queen would have had.

Ethelaine was headstrong, outspoken, and forceful. As a girl she had trained with her father's soldiers and therefore knew all the tactics of the military and the uses of many weapons, not the least of which was her slingshot. Some said this early exposure to a male force had driven her queer, for she took to women rather than men and had indeed changed the laws of her country once she took the throne so she could marry her lover, a duke's daughter named Priscilla. Priscilla had accompanied Ethelaine on this trip, and it was she who bore the title Queen.

Lastly there was King Reynold of Ilia. He was regarded by many as the villain, as he had started the war and invaded innocent Idaarolaa. Reynold, however, was a brave, caring king who wanted peace as much as anyone else there. He felt Kelline had forced his hand, causing him to declare war. He knew he had caused many atrocities, including the death of his own son, which had in turn driven his wife to take her own life. These two events, so close together, combined with Gregor's proposal and made the king eager to end the war he had begun.

The five rulers gathered in a circular, windowless room in Gregor's palace. He had chosen this room because its location gave no room for secret passageways and its lack of windows made it impossible for anyone to listen in. The room was big enough to hold a round table with five chairs- exquisitely carved in Idaarolaan fashion, of course- and a small chair in the corner for a scribe. The kings nodded their approval of the room, and each took a seat.

"Fellow monarchs," Gregor pronounced, "I have summoned you here to negotiate a peace out of this war. For several years we have fought over the gold in Kelline's mountains, gold that would make Ilia rich. But we all know how this war began. We also know of the deaths of King Gutred of Speroa"- Ethelaine lowered her head- "King Pieter, my own father, Prince Tyr and Prince Colben of Kelline"- Yurick bowed his head mournfully- "Prince Bernon, also of Speroa,"- again, Ethelaine inclined her head- "and Prince Julius of Ilia." Reynold kept his head upright. He did not want to dishonor his son's memory with weakness.

Gregor indicated that each nation was to state its wants at this meeting, and that every desire was to be discussed and agreed upon first. Yurick started.

"I would like the Ilians to cease mining our gold, and a restoration of all property rights of the mountains," he said.

"That seems fair to me," Gregor said. "Are there any objections?"

Reynold rose. "We need the gold, Yurick. We have little to support our economy besides sheep and precious metals. Our own supply is nearly gone, and your people do not mine the rich strain of gold under their mountains. Your land is rich on its own. We ask only for what is extra."

"Rest assured, Reynold, we will begin mining this gold, now that we are aware of it," Yurick argued. Gregor could feel the heightened tension in the room.

"You would not be aware of it but for us! We deserve some of your profits!" Reynold declared.

"Silence!" Gregor roared. Most were amazed at his powerful voice, as before they had only heard him speak gently. "We shall debate this matter as adults, if you don't mind."

Yurick and Reynold sat. After a moment, Gregor did too.

"Perhaps," Arefi suggested in a low voice, "Kelline would agree to trade gold to the Ilians at a reduced price?"

"And what would that accomplish?" asked Reynold irritably.

"Kelline would mine the gold, as it pleases. But some of the gold would go to Ilia, and Ilia would not pay a tax on it. This way, Ilia has its gold to sell and profit from, and Kelline too earns a profit. Is this not fair to both?"

Grudgingly, the two kings agreed, and the council moved forward to the next matter.

So it continued for days. The kings locked themselves in that small room and debated, leaving only to relieve themselves. Twice a day food was brought to the room and they stopped discussing to eat, and a constant supply of water was available to ease their dry throats. Finally, after nearly two weeks of deliberation, a formal document was drawn up.

The five kings swore peace everlasting. None would ever attack its neighbor, and any conflict would be resolved first through diplomatic negotiations. No killing would occur along the borders. International law was to be always respected. And above all, there would never be war again.

Each monarch withdrew content. Among the thanes of Pynterre there was still some grumbling, but most were surprised that young Arefi had done so well to represent them. Everything returned to the way it had been before, with a few minor changes. Kelline opened up a large mining operation in the mountains along the Ilian border. Trade between Ilia and other nations increased. More and more often were marriages arranged between countries. And the kings grew old, and their families grew up, until finally a new generation poised itself on the edge of ruling. And then it was that problems reared up again between the nations, and the prospect of war rose on the horizon.

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**So. This is really boring, I know. Luckily, I thought of that, so I posted chapter one as well. So you can read that.**

**You can still review the prologue, though.**

**!--Mazzie--!**


	2. Part I: Chapter 1

**Part I**

**Chapter 1**

Isabella Ivonson sat again at her window and watched the knights practice. It was a habit she had begun years past, when her younger brother had first begun his training, and continued once she had grown up and discovered joy in sweaty, muscular men.

Isabella's room did not, in fact, overlook the training yards. In fact, she had had to search for days to find the room whose windows she could see from the ground, and still longer to find a suitable spot. Unfortunately, the rooms were servants' chambers, and many disapproved of Isabella's presence there, although had she asked they would have vigorously denied it. Her parents, however, were not so discreet.

"Isabella!" she would hear her mother's maid, Drucila, call. "Isabella, are you in the servants' quarters again? I tell you, that is no place for a lady such as yourself."

Isabella rarely answered. For a long time she had rested openly in the round hall window, but Drucila found her easily there, and so she had instead retired to a windowed closet shortly down the hall. Drucila had yet to figure her out.

Although the wooden chair beneath her was hard, Isabella didn't mind. She had, a few weeks ago, fallen in love at one of her father's tournaments. A young knight named Gavin had asked to be her champion. One look at his brown curls and shining blue eyes and Isabella had agreed at once. He had proceeded to win the entire tournament, beating the reigning champion of three years. As he proudly lifted his lance in the air, Isabella knew she had found her future husband.

She had not, however, mentioned this to either of her parents. And so when at last Drucila found her, it was for Isabella to meet a new potential suitor.

"Tell my mother I won't see a single suitor!" Isabella cried. "I have already chosen my husband!"

"It doesn't matter who you choose, love, it's who your parents choose that you'll marry," Drucila said wisely. Ever since the maid had found gray in her hair, she had acted like an old wisewoman, and spoke and moved more slowly under the pretense that she was old. She was, in fact, about fifty years old.

"I don't want to marry someone my parents choose for me! I want to choose for myself!" Isabella was dangerously near a tantrum. Her tantrums were famous throughout the castle for being extremely explosive and long-lived.

Drucila turned around and slapped the girl. As an old woman, she had no compunctions about such things. "Now, you behave yourself, missy!" she hissed loudly. "Don't think I don't know what you're up to, hiding up there in the servants' quarters. You're after some knight at practice, and that simply won't do for you! If you were anyone else, a knight would be grand, but granddaughter of a king…you cannot make a fool of yourself over a man in armor! Your parents will make a match for you, and you will be happy with it. Now, stop your sniveling and come with me!"

Isabella followed meekly into her parents' morning sitting room.

* * *

Teren tapped his fingers anxiously on the arm of his chair. Normally he would have paced, but in the presence of royalty such behavior wouldn't do. Even his finger-tapping was most repulsive, but he couldn't help himself. He was expected to marry this girl, and he had to make a good impression.

He forced himself to look away from the king, prince, and princess and instead to stare intently at the wall. After what felt like an eternity, he heard footsteps in the hall, and he turned just as his potential bride was pushed into the room.

He rose immediately. "Teren Thundergrad, my lady, at your service," he said, bowing low.

"Teren?" Isabella asked, sounding surprised. Teren wasn't. As children, they had been close friends, until he had gone to sea with his father seven years ago. He saw that Isabella had grown and hoped he had too.

"Isabella, I believe you and Lord Thundergrad have met already?" Isabella's father, Crown Prince Frederich, said. Her grandfather, King Yurick, laughed wheezingly.

"Met? Don't you remember, son? They were thick as thieves as children," he said. He felt no need to lower his voice, as he never had, and with age he had found less reason; indeed, as he had begun to go a bit deaf, he tended to talk louder so he could hear himself.

"I suppose we are done with formalities, then," Frederich said, a note of irritation in his voice, and sat again beside his wife, motioning to Teren and Isabella to do the same. "Isabella," he began as soon as they were comfortable, "Duke Thundergrad and I have spoken together since his return with his son, and we have both agreed that a union between our two families will be ideal, considering you two know each other so well and will not need long to become better acquainted. So we have decided that you will be wed in six months' time."

"Father!" Isabella cried, rising to her feet again. "You can't! I won't marry him!"

"Isabella!" gasped her mother.

Teren stared at his shoes. He had not expected such a reaction from Isabella. Long ago, they had indeed been close, but it had been something more than that, at least for him. He had left with his father with the intention of earning some repute to please Isabella. Perhaps this was only because he was a few years older, or perhaps his feelings were destined to be unrequited, but either way it appeared Isabella had never felt the same way about him that he had about her. He blushed to think that he had ever proposed an arranged marriage with her to his father.

"Why won't you marry him?" Frederich asked furiously.

"I'm in love with someone else, Father!" Isabella declared. "I will marry no one but him!"

"Who is it?" demanded her father.

"His name is Gavin, and he's a knight!"

Hardly had she gotten farther before Yurick interrupted.

"Gavin?" he said, laughing. "That little snippet is no knight! He may have won the tournament, but Isabella, child, he has no courage in him."

"And Teren does?" Isabella asked. "He's never done anything brave! I knew him when we were young, he saw ghosts in every corner. I always saved _him_. He couldn't slay a dragon_fly_, let alone a real dragon!"

Teren's blush had deepened. Angry as Isabella's words might be, she was right. He had been a coward as a child. He had hoped she wouldn't remember, and that he could prove himself brave when he told her stories of his travels.

"Isabella! I am ashamed at your behavior. You will apologize at once to Lord Teren and you will stop with this display!" Princess Hélène scolded.

"Child, there haven't been any dragons in a hundred years," Yurick laughed. Much was amusing to him in his old age. "My own grandfather killed the last one. He used its fingerbone as a scepter, that's how big it was. Once he showed me the skull-"

"That's wonderful, Father," Frederich interrupted. "Isabella, go to your chambers and stay there for the remainder of the day. Your behavior today has disgraced your entire family and Lord Teren. Your mother and I expect a formal apology tomorrow. Now go."

Teren watched as a middle-aged servant grabbed Isabella by the arm and dragged her, still protesting, out of the room. When the door clicked shut behind her and her cries died down in the hall, the prince and princess turned to Teren.

"We apologize for our daughter's behavior, Lord Teren," Frederich said formally.

"No need," Teren said. "I withdraw my offer. I had thought that perhaps Isabella felt differently about me, but it appears she does not. Forgive me for wasting your time." He bowed, and would have withdrawn, but the old king called him back.

"You don't withdraw your offer, lad," he said solemnly. "I know love when I see it, and it's a good match besides. I know you're braver than she says, and certainly braver than that Gavin fellow. And besides, it's time my granddaughter learned a lesson about stubbornness."

"You want me to continue courting Isabella, even though she's made it quite clear she is not interested in courting me?"

"No need to worry about her," Yurick wheezed. "She'll marry you, one way or another. Although, if she has it her way, she'll have to come around to you first."

Teren wrinkled his forehead in confusion. What did the king mean by that?

"I'm sorry, Your Majesty," he asked, "but what does that mean?"

"You just keep courting her, lad. Don't worry about anything else."

* * *

Teren left seconds later, leaving Yurick alone with his son and daughter-in-law.

"Oh, times are changing, lad," Yurick said mournfully. Frederich looked at him strangely.

"What do you mean, Father?"

"When I was your age, no girl would have spoken out so to her father! I'm not blaming you for poor parenting, but that girl doesn't know her place."

"I know, Father. We've tried everything, but she's as headstrong as ever."

"She's like her grandfather that way," Yurick said with a dry chuckle that turned into a cough.

"Are you well, Your Majesty?" Hélène asked worriedly. "Shall I ring for some water?"

Yurick waved off her ministrations. "No need to treat me like an invalid, Hélène. I'm still quite hale and hearty."

Hélène smiled weakly. She still worried about the king.

"Why don't you go talk sense into your daughter, Hélène?" Yurick asked. When she had gone, he sighed. "Now we can really talk, my son."

"What do you need to talk about?"

"You remember, all those years ago, when I went to that council in Idaarolaa?"

"Of course, Father. I went with you."

"Keep the peace, son," Yurick said.

"Always, Father."

"We're all old now, even that Ethelaine, though you wouldn't know it to look at her." Yurick chuckled again.

Frederich smiled too. Ethelaine was close to ten years younger than he; she had assumed the throne at eighteen after her father and brother's untimely deaths.

"Reynold's died five years since, and his son…there's something off about that man. Don't tell me you didn't notice it," Yurick continued.

Frederich had noticed this at Reynold's funeral. The new king, Reynard, had a strange glow in his eyes that looked like the glow of near-madness. Yes, there was something off about him.

"You think I'm only old and blind, but I know," Yurick said. "I can see war on the horizon, and that Reynard's the key. Keep the peace, son."

"I'll help you keep the peace, Father," Frederich promised.

"Not help. It won't be long now before you're king, Frederich. I know you're ready. I always knew you'd be the best king, of all my sons. If your brothers had lived I would have named you my heir, you know. The people like you, and you're a strong ruler. Have confidence. Keep the peace."

"Father, don't talk like that. You'll be alive to speak at my funeral, you know that."

"Of course I will, son. But, just in case I'm not, be ready to keep the peace."

* * *

Isabella stopped sobbing at the knock on her door. "Who's there?" she asked stuffily.

"It's your mother, Isabella. May I come in?"

The question was a formality, for no sooner had Hélène finished speaking than the door opened and she swept in.

"What do you want?" Isabella asked irritably.

"I want you to talk to me. Tell me about this Gavin fellow," Hélène said gently, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"He's very handsome, Mother. He has curly brown hair and bright blue eyes and white teeth in his smile. He asked to be my champion at the tournament, and then he won the whole thing! He's a great knight."

"How long have you felt this way?"

"Just since the tournament. But I've watched him, and he's good at practice too, and very kind. He helps up the people he beats."

"That's noble of him. Is that why you've spent so much time in the servants' quarters?"

"They overlook the training fields. I'm a lady, so I can't go out there myself."

"No, you can't. So instead you hide away and watch. Have you talked to Gavin about this yet?"

Isabella frowned. "No. I'm afraid he doesn't feel the same way."

"He asked to be your champion, didn't he?"

"But what if he just felt bad for me, since Eduoard is always my champion?"

Hélène chuckled. "Poor Eduoard had to be my champion this year," she said. "He was quite embarrassed."

"And even if he did love me," Isabella continued as though her mother hadn't spoken, "Grandfather would never let us marry. He'd make me marry Teren."

"Now, you know your grandfather won't 'make' you marry anyone. He doesn't have the heart for it. He'll just make sure you want to marry him first."

"But I won't ever want to marry Teren! Not while Gavin's out there, waiting for me!"

"Shh, Isabella. Everything will come out well, I promise. But you must stop acting like a child and behave like an adult. How will it look to the people if the king's granddaughter throws a tantrum when she is asked to marry someone she knows well?"

"I don't care. I don't love Teren, and I won't marry a man I don't love."

Hélène sighed. There was no reasoning with this child. "Very well, love. Get up and wash your face. I'll send Drucila in to make you up for dinner, all right? Wear the green lawn, please, dear. Teren and his father will be dining with us."

Isabella groaned and buried her head in her pillow.

* * *

The small family dinner went nearly exactly as Isabella dreaded it might. She and Teren were forced to sit next to each other, and they hardly spoke. His stony silence made her almost regret her harsh words of before. They had been such good friends as children; she had always thought that ease would come back when Teren returned. Now there was only this silence, this anger. Could she not wed him? Would it hurt so much?

Then Gavin's face appeared before her, and she realized that it would hurt. She loved Gavin, whatever she felt for Teren. She could wed no one but her knight.

"Isabella, dear," Hélène said, trying to break the awkwardness, "why don't you tell Teren about your music?"

Isabella sighed inwardly. What interest could Teren possibly have in such a subject? "Well, Teren," she said pleasantly, "since you've left I've taken up the harp. It is quite difficult to play, as it is so large, and it is dreadfully hard to strike only the necessary strings."

Teren smiled, but she noticed the falsity in his smile that matched her tone. "I, too, have taken up a new instrument in my time away," he said stiffly. "I can now play the hornpipe. It's a traditional sailor's instrument, and I daresay it's far easier to play than your harp."

"Perhaps the two of you would grant us a concert after dinner," Frederich said, upon prompting from his wife.

Yurick snorted. "Son, I'm deaf and I know harp and hornpipe should never be played in the same room. They're not meant to be together in the same building, much less in concert."

Frederich frowned at his father's rudeness, and Isabella let out a sigh.

_Not meant to be in the same building, much less in concert,_ she thought morosely. _Much like Teren and I._

* * *

**All right. Now I'm leaving you a real author's note.**

**I know this seems really soon after _Glass_, but I've been working on this sporadically for a while now. In fact, I often worked on it when I should have been working on _Glass_. It's meant to be a conglomeration of fairy tales, although for now you can't really tell. I would like to apologize again for the exceeding boringness of the prologue, but I do rather like it the way it is, and I did post this far more interesting chapter to make up for it.**

**Anyway, as always, questions, comments, and concerns may be expressed via reviews, to which I shall most likely reply. So. Go for it!**

**!--Mazzie--!**


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"Good morning, my sisters!" Arija called cheerily.

The morning in question was in fact nearly half-over, a fact which Arija refused to ignore.

"Come, lay-abeds, it is time to rise. Father will be quite irked if you are not dressed and ready for the noon meal."

The girls lying on the eleven occupied beds groaned in unison.

"Where do you get this energy, Arija?" Lahleh, Arija's sister by the same mother, muttered.

"It is a simple matter of wanting to be doing, rather than not doing," Arija replied.

"Curse your riddling tongue!" Lahleh answered as she sat up, blinking blearily in the light Arija had let into the room.

"How you can be awake after a night such as we have had," began Elil, to frantic shushing by her half-awake sisters.

"Keep silent, Elil!" warned Dílara. "If Father finds out how we spend our nights-"

"He will be utterly enraged, we know," Nasimi said. Nasimi often acted like the eldest, for her mother was chief of Arefi's wives.

"Enough with this fighting, sisters! Father will be far crosser if he hears of our quarrels," Arija warned.

"Oh, leave us be!" Nasimi said, and as she always did, Arija bowed to her sister's orders.

* * *

Arija glanced up from her weaving when her sisters entered. Each took her loom, stifling yawns, and began her work anew.

"Come, sisters, where is your joy in work?" Arija asked.

"Silence, you!" hissed Parvana. "We are tired of your harping."

"Perhaps we should not go tonight, if it tires you so and turns your moods so dark," Arija suggested lightly.

Collective gasps filled the room.

"How could you even suggest such a thing, Arija?" asked Roshanara, Arija's other sister by the same mother.

"It seems practical to me. We spend our days in work, and our nights in dance, and then we are too tired even to speak cordially to one another."

"But the woman promised us great joy if we would but dance with her sons!" cried Kader, one of Arefi's twin daughters.

"Yes, Arija. She promised us prosperity and happiness for lifetimes to come!" added Kíraz, Kader's twin.

"And what have we seen of her promises? So far, nothing!"

"It has not been very long," said Dílara practically. "The woman said 'every night for a year's span'. For eleven months only have we danced with her sons. We must only keep at it for another month, and success will be ours."

"Eleven months are wearing upon us. I believe we must stop now, while we can."

"But why would we want to stop?"

Arija glanced at her sisters. "Could you see yourselves wed to one of her sons? Do you love the men you dance with? Could you bear them strong sons? Would you let them rule our tribe?" When none answered, she finished. "I thought not. Let us stay abed tonight, then, sisters."

"I will not," said Nasimi, and soon the other girls began to follow her lead.

"Well," Arija said finally, "I plan to. Do not expect me to go dancing tonight."

"But Arija, you must!" This from Kíraz.

"I must do nothing. I am not beholden to that woman."

"She told your fortune, Arija. She said wondrous things of your future."

Arija thought on this. It was true. The woman had pledged her six strong sons, all set to be rulers of her tribe. But, she had said, this would only happen if Arija did as the fortuneteller commanded.

"Can I not achieve wondrous things on my own? Why must I do as she says?"

"Oh, that is easy for you to say!" chimed in Ayman, one of Arefi's younger daughters. "You are the eldest, and you are beautiful. You will be married easily."

"It is harder for us, as the youngest," added Siran, "for we know Father cannot pay all our dowries. Twelve daughters is a hard burden to bear, and Father cannot afford it, no matter how hard he tries. For us, this is the only way we can ever have families."

"Sisters, you must but have faith-"

"Do not ruin this for us, Arija," said Elil. "Please, dance with us for just one more month."

Arija sighed. "Very well," she said, and returned to her weaving.

The weaving tent stayed silent for a long time, until a servant entered.

"Chief Arefi requests the presence of his daughters," the servant announced, bowing respectfully.

Under the servant's watchful eye, the girls put away their shuttles and threads and hastily made themselves presentable. They followed the servant to their father's fine tent, and waited outside until they were announced.

"Nasimi, daughter of Arefi's first wife Jalila," announced the servant.

Nasimi glanced proudly at her sisters and entered the tent. Arija could picture her. She would kneel on the floor and bow low for their father, and then turn, preening, to take her place at Jalila's side. Nasimi's seniority chafed at Arija. She was, after all, firstborn, and her mother Amira had been Arefi's first wife. He had loved her very much, too, Amira often told her daughter, until he met Jalila and Amira became the lesser wife.

_But Amira bore Arefi three daughters, and Jalila has but one child in all these years,_ Arija thought. Her mother, too, consoled herself thusly.

"Arija, Lahleh, and Roshanara, daughters of Arefi's senior wife Amira."

The sisters entered together and bowed low. When Arija looked up, she noticed her father's gaze upon her. He looked proud enough, but she didn't know if this was an act for some diplomat or if he was actually pleased to see his daughters. She located Amira and led her sisters over.

"Elil and Siran, daughters of Arefi's wife Fatima."

"Zara, Parvana, and Dílara, daughters of Arefi's wife Hadia."

"Kader, Kíraz, and Ayman, daughters of Arefi's wife Salma."

Each girl entered and bowed low before her father, then took her place at her mother's side. When the ceremony had ended, Arefi spoke.

"I have presented each of my daughters to you. Have any of them pleased you?"

Arija followed her father's gaze and located a man she assumed was some sort of diplomat. He did not look Pynterran, but Arija could not place his nationality.

"It is most unfortunate to have so many daughters and not a single son to raise as heir," the man replied rudely. Arija flushed, and she watched her father's jaw set.

"For this reason," he said through clenched teeth, "I plan to marry my daughters well, that they may bring strong sons into my family."

"You'll understand, of course, if I cannot promise my prince to your tribe. He is, after all, my king's only son."

"I mourn with your king that he had no more children," Arefi agreed.

"You understand, I must choose a bride who is not too young-" the diplomat glanced at Ayman, Siran, and the twins, the eldest of whom were fourteen- "and who is quite lovely in appearance. She should also be able to bear strong sons to my king's line, and she should be a hard worker."

Arefi beckoned Arija forward. "My eldest daughter fits all those criteria, I believe. She would be most pleased to wed your prince."

Arija smiled, but inside her heart was sinking. She had always expected an arranged marriage, but she had planned to live here, in Pynterre. She looked nervously back at her sisters. What about them? Without her, they would never fulfill the fortuneteller's command, and many of her sisters would remain unwed.

She looked back at the diplomat. He was eyeing her up and down, as though she were some property he had to appraise.

"She'll do," he said finally, and the tension in the tent relaxed. "We shall leave within a week."

"Leave?" Arija spoke without thinking. Horrified at her forwardness, she clapped a hand over her mouth.

Arefi glanced at her, his eyebrows raised. "Something you wish to say, daughter?"

She could hear the hardness in his tone. She had embarrassed him, and herself. "Please, father, if I could have but a month with my sisters," she found herself saying.

Her father's reaction was unexpected. "Is this pleasing to you?" he asked the diplomat.

"I suppose a month cannot make too much difference," the man replied.

"Very well, then. Arija, you may stay with your sisters for one month and one month only. On the appointed day you will leave with no protestations. Am I understood?"

Arija nodded. "Yes, Father."

"You are dismissed," he said, addressing her sisters as well as herself. The girls bowed low and left.

* * *

"You are bold, to speak so to Father," Lahleh said when they had returned to the weaving tent.

"I do not know what came over me," Arija replied honestly. "It was as if I had lost all control over my mouth."

"It is such a pity that you shamed yourself so soon after Father showed you his favor," Nasimi said nastily. "He did not choose any of us to wed this foreign prince."

"I do not think he was showing me any favor, Nasimi. I am his eldest daughter, and tradition states that the eldest shall marry before her sisters."

"And yet I am the senior daughter, which is above the elder daughter in ranking. You may have noticed that I was announced first."

"She shamed herself for us!" Siran protested. "We asked her to dance with us for one more month, so we too may have our husbands, and she requested that month. You have no right to be so cruel to her."

Nasimi snorted. "And you have no right to talk so to me. My mother is Arefi's first wife, and I am her only child. I rank above all of you, even you, Arija."

"May we return to our weaving in peace?" asked Dílara irritably.

"Yes, let us not quarrel," Arija agreed. "We shame ourselves and our father by fighting like dogs over a dropped table scrap. Let us do our work."

The girls returned to their weaving in silence.

* * *

As evening fell, Arija sat outside her tent, gazing up at the stars. They were so bright, and so many, here in the desert. Would they shine so brightly in the city she was bound to?

She hardly noticed the figure sinking down next to her, and only acknowledged her mother's presence when Amira asked, "What are you thinking about, Daughter?"

"I'm wondering about the stars. Are they so bright wherever I'm going?"

"Marigina, across the sea. I do not know, my daughter. I have never left Pynterre. But no, I do not think they are so bright away from home."

"But they are the same stars?"

"Yes, some of them. You will be far south of us, and many stars will be different there. You will have to learn their names and their stories on your own."

"I hardly remember the stories of these stars," Arija said. How would she ever learn and remember new constellations in her new home?

"Then let me tell you one," Amira said gently. "See, there, that line of stars? Below it, the stars form a gown- can you see that?"

Arija nodded.

"That is a girl all dressed up for a ball. She worked as a servant, but one day she saw the prince of her castle and became determined to be his bride. So, throughout weeks and weeks, she wove a cloth shining white as the moon, and sewed on bits of crystal and pearl that fell off the dresses of the fine ladies. She sewed a beautiful dress and decorated it with these shining gems, but the true beauty was in the care she gave its embroidery. She took lavender thread and sewed flowers and vines and leaves all over the gown, and when she had finished, it was the finest anyone had ever seen.

"A few weeks later, the prince announced a ball, and the serving girl was excited to wear her dress for the first time. She left her task early and bathed until every bit of grime was gone from her body. She pulled her hair into an outrageous shape, all twisted bits and loose curls. She had no face powder, and so left her face bare, but she was as beautiful as any lady in court with her face clean. Then, just as she was about to enter, an old servant pulled her aside.

"'I was a princess once,' she said, 'but I was taken from my homeland and brought here. Still, I wish to help you in your quest to become royalty.' The woman gave her a necklace of diamonds she had hidden in her bed for years upon years. 'Wear this,' she said, 'and there is no way he can ignore you.'

"The serving girl went to the ball, and all was as the woman had told her. The prince danced with her and her alone. He took her out into the garden and proclaimed his love for her evermore. And she believed him.

"But she slipped away early, early that morning, and hid her dress, and let down her hair, and grimed her face, and the prince began his search for the beautiful woman of the night before. He came down into the kitchen and saw the serving girl, for she had forgotten, in her haste, to take off her diamond necklace. But he did not recognize her without her borrowed finery, and he had her put to death for stealing. He spent the rest of his days wondering what had become of the beautiful woman at the ball."

"That is a sad story," Arija said when her mother had finished.

"A sad story, yes, but its heart is true. Do not pretend to be someone you are not, for you cannot fool anyone with a disguise," Amira said wisely.

"Why haven't you ever told me that story before?"

"I have, but it always ended happily."

"Then why change the ending?"

"You were young, Daughter, and a sad ending would not have ensured happy dreams for you. But now I think you need to know the true story, so that you will remember it when you leave us. Be true to yourself, Arija, wherever your fate may take you."

"I will, Mother. I promise."

They stayed a long time, and the stars, as if bidding farewell to Arija, shone all the brighter.

* * *

**Well. I was going to wait on this, but I had some peer pressure...**

**Questions? Comments? Concerns? Leave a review!**

**!--Mazzie--!**


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Isabella woke with a roaring headache and bleary eyes. She had cried herself to sleep the night before, although she wasn't entirely sure why. The previous day had tried her feelings sorely.

Her maid Marin was upon her immediately. "Come, princess, up you get! Today's promisin' ta be a fine, lovely day."

"I have a horrid headache, Marin. Could you please get me some tea?" Isabella asked.

"Of course, my lady."

After the girl had gone, Isabella rose and washed her face. The cool water on her eyelids made them feel a little better, but she still felt groggy. When her maid returned, she was out on the balcony, catching a breath of fresh air and ignoring the pouring rain.

"My lady! You mustn't be out in this weather! You'll catch your death of cold!" Marin exclaimed, dragging Isabella inside. The early fall rainstorm had soaked Isabella to the skin.

"Come, milady, let's give you a warm bath, shall we?" Marin asked kindly. She had never seen Isabella act like this. She drew a bath for the princess, then left her to soak in the cooling water.

Isabella lay in the tub for a long time, thinking. Was she this upset because her parents wouldn't let her marry Gavin, or because she couldn't marry Teren? It couldn't be the latter; she didn't love Teren and didn't want to marry him anyway. It must be the former. But why was Teren in her head at all?

After she had been dried and dressed for the day, Isabella took her embroidery and made her way to her usual spot, so she could watch Gavin practice and put Teren out of her mind. But no sooner had she left her chambers than she ran into Edouard, her younger brother.

"Isabella!" he saluted her. "I was just on my way to find you. Let's do something fun today!"

"Edouard, why aren't you training? Your swordmaster will not be pleased that you're here," Isabella scolded.

"He gave us the day off. Well, not really. Because it's raining we have to clean armor," Edouard explained with a noise of disgust. "But I had Henrick do mine. I'd much rather look for secret passageways with you."

Isabella sighed. When she and Edouard had been quite young, they had spent inordinate amounts of time searching for the secret passageways they just knew riddled the castle. They had spent hours in the dusty corners of the palace halls, lifting tapestries, rapping walls, and rattling doors. Teren had played too, Isabella remembered vaguely.

"Well, I suppose I have nothing better to do," she conceded. "Let me put away my embroidery."

She let her brother lead her through the halls to the north wing, the guest hall. There, they met Teren.

"What are you doing here?" Isabella asked irritably. Her time with Edouard was meant to take her mind off her problems.

"I'm here to help you find secret passageways. Just like old times," he said with a smile. "Trust me," he whispered, leaning down to her ear, "we won't talk business at all."

She couldn't help but smile at his grin. He was so like the Teren she had once known, but at the same time so different.

"Does anyone remember where we've already looked?" Edouard asked.

Teren and Isabella shook their heads. It had been a long time since they'd played this game. In fact, Isabella realized, the game had stopped when Teren had gone off to sea.

"We'll just start at the end of this hallway and work our way down," Teren said, and raced off to begin knocking on walls.

"I'll take the Mauve Room!" Edouard called over his shoulder as he ran after Teren.

Isabella walked, ladylike, to the end of the hall where Teren was already pounding walls and lifting tapestries. "I'll take this side of the hall," she said, and began her own knocking.

After a few moments, Teren spoke. "I missed you, Isabella."

"I missed you too. You left so suddenly."

"I know. My father wanted me to go."

"Was it frightening?"

"Was what frightening?"

"The ocean. It scares me just looking at it. It's so wild, and so dangerous. Weren't you ever scared?" Isabella shuddered a bit involuntarily. She had once seen a ship driven into the rocks beneath the castle and had never forgotten.

"Whenever I was frightened, I just thought of you, and how brave you always are," Teren replied, not looking at her.

Isabella stayed silent. She didn't know how to respond.

"Are you sure you don't-" Teren began.

"You promised," Isabella reminded him coldly.

"I'm sorry," he apologized hastily.

She didn't reply. She tapped louder on the wall before her.

"I'm sorry about yesterday, Isabella. I suppose I should have given you some warning," he said after a while.

"You could have told me you were back."

"I wanted to surprise you."

"Well, I was surprised."

"I found one!" Edouard called from inside the guest room.

Teren and Isabella turned and smiled at one another, their differences momentarily forgotten. Then they dashed into the Mauve Room, Isabella dropping all semblance of manners, to see what Edouard had found.

"Look," he said unnecessarily, pointing to a black hole in the wall before him. "I just tapped this wooden panel, and it opened."

"Should we go in?" Isabella asked nervously. To think, after all this time, their plan had succeeded!

"We'll need a light. Grab that candle," Edouard said eagerly.

Isabella did as instructed. "But how will we light it?" she asked. "None of us have any matches."

"No worries," Teren said, producing a matchbook from within his tunic.

"Why do you have a matchbook?" Isabella asked curiously.

"Tobacco."

"You smoke that stuff?"

Teren looked at her. "Every sailor does. Why, is there something wrong with it?"

"It's noxious," Isabella said, "and it's quite rude to smoke in decent society."

"Well, you shouldn't count then," he replied with a wicked grin.

"Are we going in, or what?" Edouard asked impatiently.

The two turned their attention to the matter at hand. Teren, as the tallest, held the candle high as the other two entered, Edouard at the front and Isabella taking the rear.

"It's not very exciting," Isabella said after a while.

"We don't even know where it goes yet!" Eduoard protested. "Who knows what it's for?"

Something skittered over Isabella's foot. She screamed and clutched tight to Teren.

"What's wrong?" he asked, sounding panicked.

"Something ran over my foot. I apologize." Isabella was glad for the dim candlelight. Teren couldn't see her blush.

The three continued to wander for what seemed like hours. The tunnel twisted and dipped and rose again, but never seemed to come to an end.

"Let's go back," Isabella said finally. "This tunnel leads nowhere."

"No, I feel a draft," Teren said. "We're nearing the end."

They came out of a hole, overgrown with weeds, that even Isabella had to stoop to get through. They were decidedly outdoors, although exactly where she couldn't initially tell.

"Well, it's stopped raining," she said.

"We're outside the castle wall!" Edouard exclaimed excitedly. "We walked all the way out here! Just imagine, if it hadn't rained today, we never would have found this!"

"We did finally find one," Teren agreed, "and it's a good one."

"Well," Isabella said, "why don't we go in through the gate instead? I'd rather not take that tunnel again."

* * *

Teren stared into the fire, thinking. Only yesterday he had struggled to reconcile the Isabella of dinner with the Isabella he had known in his youth. Now he tried to reconcile the Isabella of today with the Isabella of yesterday.

How could she treat him so coldly one day, and so kindly the next? Had she realized she loved him? Then why wouldn't she talk to him about it?

His feelings for her had not changed. At twelve he had noticed something between them, but in the interim years without her, he had chalked it up to a childhood crush. Only in recent months, as his impending return had drawn his thoughts to her, had he realized it might be more. After seeing her yesterday, he had assumed she didn't feel the same way. But today, she had acted like she had in old times.

Had the old king been right? Should he keep hope?

He rang for a bottle of liquor. He would need it to keep his thoughts away from her.

* * *

Isabella contrived to run into Gavin as he left dinner that evening.

"Gavin!" she exclaimed. "What a surprise!"

He flashed that grin at her, and every thought went out of her head. He was just so handsome! "Good evening, Princess," he said, bowing low. His eyes met hers as he rose.

"Please," she said casually, "call me Isabella."

"Isabella, then. How coincidental that I should run into you now, as I have been thinking all day about you."

She couldn't help it. She blushed. "How coincidental that you should have been thinking of me, when I was thinking of you."

"I am flattered, Isabella."

"I never got a chance to congratulate you on winning the tournament. You fought quite well, and I was most impressed."

"I did it all for you, Isabella."

Gavin reached for her hand and kissed it. A thrill ran through her body.

"Please, such attention is most forward," she protested coquettishly.

"I am ready to be forward, Isabella," Gavin said, and he kissed her softly on the lips.

She stiffened at first, then relaxed and kissed him back. It felt so good to kiss him! He did love her!

He pulled away first. "I must tell you something, Isabella. I love you, and I have since I first set eyes on you. I thought the best way to show it was the tournament, but I haven't spoken to you since."

"Oh, Gavin!" Isabella sighed. "I feel exactly the same way." She kissed him again.

"Shall I court you, then?" Gavin asked between kisses.

"Oh, please do!"

"Of course I will. I'll go right now!" And with only a swift kiss on the cheek, Isabella was left alone in the hallway, glowing with joy.

* * *

When Marin awoke Isabella the next morning, she gave the princess no such leisure time as she had had the day before.

"Your parents and the king wish an audience with you, and you mustn't be late," she said.

Isabella leapt out of bed. An audience! Surely that meant Gavin had talked to them, and they wanted to tell her yes; yes, she could marry him! She gulped down her breakfast and urged Marin to such haste in dressing her that a button came off the back of her dress.

"Now look what ye've gone an' made me do! Now we'll have ta wait for a seamstress ta sew your button back on!" the maid scolded.

"Oh, please, no, Marin! It's very important that I go now! Please, let's just leave it! No one will notice!"

"It's not your head what's on the line, milady. But, seein' as it's so important to ya…"

The woman trailed off, and Isabella rushed out of the room, running her fingers through her loose hair as she ran.

* * *

"You're not marrying this man," Frederich said sternly.

Isabella was shocked. "But Father, I love him! And he loves me! And he's a noble knight!"

"It doesn't matter, Isabella. You're to marry Teren Thundergrad, and that's final."

She cast a glance at Gavin, tears in her eyes. He wouldn't look at her.

"How could you do this? How _could _you?" she cried, and ran out of the room without waiting for an answer.

**Well, well, well. I actually cannot think of much to say that is particularly productive, and so for now I shan't.**

**Thanks to my lovely beta, InChrist-Billios for helping make this chapter make sense!**

**Now I think y'all should know what to do!**

**!--Mazzie--!**


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

"Arija! Wake up! It is time!"

The soft, urgent whispers of her sister, coupled with their shaking, roused Arija from her pleasant dream. Immediately its memory was reduced to blurred images of bright colors and a vague feeling she had had this dream before.

"Please, Arija! The door is under your bed! Wake up!"

She finally recognized Siran's voice and opened her eyes. Her sisters were already clad in their finest dancing gowns, their faces made up and their hair twisted back. She groaned and rose.

"Already?" she asked as she dressed.

"You went to bed late. You should have expected to be tired," Nasimi scolded.

"I was thinking," Arija protested. Eleven months of practice enabled her to style her hair in seconds.

"You are always thinking," her sister replied. "But right now we should be dancing!"

As Arija prepared herself, her sisters dug up her cushions to reveal the trapdoor hidden beneath. With a grunt, Ayman pulled it open, revealing the stairs beneath.

"If you two are finished with your quarreling, may we go?" asked Dílara sarcastically.

Arija waved dismissively at them as she dug for her slippers. The pair she had been wearing was worn through with dancing.

"Come, sister!" Lahleh called. She was the last to go through the door. Arija hurried after her, nearly falling down the stairs in her haste. It wasn't entirely her fault, however; these were the first stairs she had ever seen.

They hustled, unseeing, through the beautiful gardens. Arija recalled how stunned they'd been, those first few nights, at the verdant colors. They had sauntered through, gently touching the leaves and stroking the trunks of unfamiliar trees. Elil had reached to pluck a strange-looking fruit and been astonished to find it was a ruby. She had plucked it, and the tree had screamed. The girls had barely looked in the gardens since.

Now Arija paused and glanced up, remembering what Amira had said about stars. But of course there were no constellations here. There wasn't even a sky. They were underground, and above was nothing but obscurity.

At last they reached the lake and its boatmen. Still, every night, Arija was astonished by the lake. She had never seen so much water in one place. The only similar sight she had ever seen was the Lake of Glass- the origin of Pynterre's economy. But unlike the Lake of Glass, this lake was alive and moving. She loved it.

Each girl went without hesitation to her prince. Arija's stood at the far end. The boats here were arranged by age, not rank, and so Arija's boat always left first. Her prince was tall and lily-white, with pale hair and a slight build. Practically, she knew he was ill-suited for desert life, but she was charmed by his handsomeness. Except his eyes. Like those of all his brothers, they were black as night.

He proffered his hand, and she took it and allowed herself to be lowered into the boat. There she sat silently, watching the boat's wake, as he poled them across to the palace.

All the sisters had been astonished by the palace. A solid building, unable to be easily moved? The idea was beyond them. They discovered columns and windows, doors and tiled floors. They delighted in its novelty, its surety of presence, and its size.

But now the palace was something commonplace, something they saw daily. It no longer impressed them. Yet somehow, now that her life was about to change, Arija found it in herself to marvel.

"It is beautiful," she said to her prince. He didn't respond. He never did.

He led her inside. A table against the far wall was heavily laden with food, a feast even for these daughters of wealth. As usual, Arija wasn't hungry. As usual, she took a glass of fine wine and a small plate of fruit, just to be polite.

After her sisters had joined her on the island and eaten, the music began. They found their princes, and twelve couples made their way to the floor. They spun through a waltz and several more spirited dances before the music stopped.

There were no musicians. The only sounds were the music and the hushed steps of their feet. The girls never spoke. Their princes never spoke. And now the silence weighed heavily upon them.

"I am leaving," Arija said to her prince once the dance had begun.

An emotion flickered across his face. Surprise.

"Yes," she answered the question in his eyes. "I am to be married to a prince in Marigina. I have never been there, nor do I know anything about it."

She felt eyes on her back. Her sisters were staring.

"I know I promised your mother I would marry you once our year together was over, but I am afraid that is no longer possible. I am my father's eldest daughter, and if he wishes me to wed, I must." Tears filled her eyes. She blinked them back furiously.

He still looked questioningly at her. "I thought it was fair for you to know," she said. "After this is over, I cannot marry you."

She didn't look at his face. She didn't want to see his look of hurt.

When she did look, at last, as he helped her out of her boat, it was as blank as it had always been.

* * *

"You are bold, to speak to your prince," Lahleh said the next day.

Arija stifled a yawn. She had lain abed almost as long as her sisters today, and she was quite tired. She planned to retire early tonight.

"We all tried to speak to them, once," she said defensively. "And I thought he should know."

"Why do you not tell Father that you do not wish to marry?"

"How can you be so naïve, Lahleh? You know I cannot ask that of him. He would die of shame!" Arija scolded.

"But then you can marry your prince and stay here! You would not have to leave."

"Leaving is part of being the eldest, Lahleh. You will not miss me so much as you think you will."

Arija had not realized how saddened Lahleh had been by Arija's engagement. Since Lahleh's birth, the two had been close, and now they would be separated. Arija embraced her sister. Lahleh began to sob.

"I do not want you to go, Arija. I do not want to be left here with Nasimi in charge!" she said.

"Now, Lahleh, you have many sisters to talk to. And what of Roshanara? She is your sister too."

"Roshanara is so much younger. It is hard to talk to her. We two are but a year apart."

Arija gave up her arguments and let her sister cry.

"I apologize for my behavior, Sister," Lahleh said, when she had calmed down.

"There is no need," Arija replied. "I am glad you talked to me. I have been selfish."

"You could never be selfish!" Lahleh protested.

Arija sighed. She could recognize a losing argument. "Very well, then," she said. "Come, we must work. We cannot wallow in grief all day."

* * *

Nasimi was not in the weaving room that day. Arija noted her absence, but thought little of it. Her sister, as the head wife's only daughter, was often called away.

But when Nasimi did not come to their room after dinner, Arija began to worry. Something was wrong, either with her sister or with some other member of the family. She excused herself from her sisters and went to their mothers' tent.

As she lifted the tent flap to enter, she heard a choked noise from around the corner. When she investigated, she found Nasimi, sitting alone on the sand and weeping.

"What is the matter?" Arija asked, sitting beside her sister.

"Jalila is worse," Nasimi sobbed. "The physicians say she will die this time."

"Oh, Nasimi!" Arija threw her arms around her sister.

Jalila had always been sickly. Before Nasimi's birth, she had miscarried four, according to Amira. After the difficult labor she had had with Nasimi, the head wife's condition had worsened. She spent most of her time in bed, emerging only for important audiences that often left her pale and trembling.

"Do they know the cause?" Arija asked cautiously. Jalila often sickened when a careless servant spiced her food too heavily.

Nasimi shook her head. "I am afraid," she confessed.

"Shh," Arija murmured. "Whatever happens, you will have our sisters and me. Come, it is late, and we must go."

"What if Mother dies without me?"

"I promise you, she will not. The night is too beautiful for so sad an event. Let us go."

Arija stood and helped her sister up. "A night of dancing will lift your spirits," she whispered as she took Nasimi's hand and led her back to their tent.

* * *

The girls stood in a line before their father, struggling not to yawn. They had been roused early by servants and brought before their father, who had not spoken since they'd entered.

Arija dared a glance at her father's face. His eyes were cold and expressionless. He was clearly quite angry.

"Last night," he began finally, and his tone matched his eyes, "your mother Jalila was taken into the afterlife."

Arija heard a choked sob. She did not look, but she knew it came from Nasimi.

"Her fellow wives sat vigil with me, as did I, as her husband. But a dozen people were noticeably missing- her daughters."

Arija flushed. Traditionally, only a mother's birth-children sat vigil with her, but for a chief wife, all children's presence was required. And they, in their folly, had been dancing with their princes.

"I sent servants to your tent to fetch you, and they return to report that not one of you is in her bed. That, in fact, all of you have donned your best gowns and dancing shoes and disappeared. Have you anything to say for yourselves?"

Arija spoke. "Father, we apologize. We were unaware of the severity of our mother's condition."

"It is not to me you must apologize," Arefi said sternly, "but to the dead, for it is they who aid the gods in their final judgment. May they have mercy on the souls of disloyal children."

The girls repeated their father's prayer and, recognizing dismissal, left his tent silently.

Nasimi did not come to the weaving tent that day. When the sisters saw her at dinner, her hair had been cropped short with grief, and she was clothed in the black garment of mourning.

"Why have you not also cut your hair and put on the cloth of grief?" she asked accusingly.

"She was not our mother, Nasimi," Arija replied gently. "We are not so obliged."

"She was chief wife! That makes her your mother, whatever you say!"

"Shh, Nasimi. It has been a hard day for you. Come, why don't you sleep? You will feel refreshed in the morning."

Arija took her sister's hand and led her to her bed.

"But what about dancing?" Kíraz asked petulantly.

"We will not go dancing tonight," Arija replied. "We have danced enough."

"But our year is not up! We must continue our dancing for almost a month!"

"And where has our dancing gotten us?"

The sisters started at Nasimi's voice. They had all thought she was oblivious to their conversation.

"Look at what we have caused!" she continued. "Father is furious, we are tired and angry, and my mother died alone last night! Nothing the old woman has promised us is worth this!"

Arija nodded. "I have to agree with Nasimi. We cannot continue this way, even if it is only for a month."

Siran glared at her sisters. "If you two wish to stay, so be it! But we will go dance anyway."

"We cannot go dancing unless Arija goes," Elil said practically. "The trapdoor is under her bed."

"Then let Arija sleep somewhere else!" cried Ayman. "We must go dancing! I will not lose this chance!"

Arija glanced at Nasimi, who appeared to have fallen asleep. _She'll be safe here__,_ she thought. _The other girls will not be safe alone with their princes. I must go with them._

"If you go," she told her sisters authoritatively, "I go with you. I cannot let you go alone."

The sisters cheered, and then all snuffed out their candles and climbed into bed, feigning sleep.

* * *

Arefi sat up late in his tent, thinking.

Where did his daughters go by night? How did they slip out without their guards noticing? Most importantly, how did he plan to stop them?

"You are very quiet tonight," Amira said from behind him. Although she was well past the age of childbearing, Arefi liked to have her occasionally at night. She was gentle and kind, and if they never did anything, she was very good for conversation.

"Where do our daughters go?" he wondered aloud.

"I do not know where they go," Amira said. "Have you asked them?"

"They will not tell me. They have made that much clear." Arefi sighed heavily and laid his head in his hands.

"Then you must think of another way to find out."

Arefi looked up as an idea came to him. "I will not find out," he said. "Someone else will! I'll call for any young man to try his luck at discovering their secret. Should one succeed, he can take any of my daughters as his wife. Thusly, I can solve two problems at the same time. Yes! I will write up announcements now, and have them sent all over the world!"

Amira smiled and nodded. She was glad to be his confidante again. "But what of Arija's engagement?" she asked, realizing suddenly how important that was.

Arefi frowned. "We will have to end it. If her betrothed wants her, he will solve this mystery himself," he said decisively.

Amira wondered if her husband had gone mad. Break off an engagement? What of his honor? He would never have done such a thing yesterday. This business with his daughters- their daughters, she corrected herself proudly- had troubled him deeply.

"Come to bed," she said, not at all flirtatiously. "You can fret yourself in the morning."

"Do not wait up for me," Arefi said dismissively from his desk. "I shall sleep when I have time."

Amira frowned, but rolled over and slipped uneasily into sleep.

* * *

**Sorry for the wait. I've been busy and only just got the last chapter written.**

**Thanks again to my lovely beta, Billi!**

**Oh, and they've conveniently moved the review button to right there in the middle. And it's really big. So click it and tell me what you think!**

**!--Mazzie--!  
**

* * *


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Hélène stared out the window and repressed the urge to yawn. She had no idea why the king had summoned her at this early hour, but she knew it was important. Yurick never summoned anyone without reason.

She glanced at her reflection in the mirror across the room. She was quite disheveled, her long blonde hair tied back in a loose braid and her stays loosely tied. She had come quickly, but apparently this was no emergency, as her father-in-law had yet to arrive.

The door opened, and Hélène started, but it was only her husband. He looked as worried as she felt.

"What's going on?" he asked tersely.

"I don't know," she replied. "I was summoned from my bed for an immediate audience with the king in his drawing room. Yet here we are, and here Yurick is not."

Frederich nodded. "It's urgent, or else Father's lost his mind. He never acts like this."

"Good to know," a voice said from behind them. Both whirled around to see the king, in his dressing gown, no less, standing by the door.

"What's this about, Father?" Frederich asked.

"Isabella's run off," Yurick replied, as if it were only natural that their daughter should be gone.

"What?" Hélène gasped. She leaned weakly on the back of a chair.

"Isabella? Gone?" Frederich repeated dumbly.

"My servants informed me barely an hour ago. Her maid went into her room to stoke her fire, since the night was so cold, and the girl wasn't in her bed. She ran screaming back to her quarters, and someone who got a coherent sentence out of her came to me."

"But where? Why?" Frederich asked.

"Chances are, she's run off because of that Gavin boy," Yurick said. "She fancies herself in love, and she's run off with him."

"My daughter would never do such a thing!" Hélène cried, although she felt in her heart that this wasn't true. Isabella had always been impulsive.

"Well, she has," Yurick told her. "As soon as I heard she was gone, I sent a servant to the soldiers' quarters. Gavin's gone as well."

"Does Edouard know?" Frederich asked.

"I thought it best not to tell him. He'll find out soon enough."

"He can't find out from rumor! What will he think? He and Isabella were always so close," Hélène said. Her eyes sparkled with tears.

"Hélène's right. Fetch my son," Frederich told a man by the door. The servant hesitated, waiting for orders from the king. Yurick nodded, and the man slipped out the door.

"What do you plan to do?" Frederich asked his father.

Yurick smiled. "For now, nothing," he said complacently.

"What do you mean, nothing? Send out the god-damned army!"

"Watch your language. There's a lady present."

"I'll say what I want to say! How can you sit there and do nothing when my daughter, your granddaughter, is missing? Who knows where she is? She may well be wedded and bedded by now, and then what will we do? We cannot permit this!"

"I have an idea, my son," Yurick said patiently. "I'll send Teren Thundergrad after her. He can move more quickly and more subtly than a troop of men, and Isabella's more likely to trust him."

"Are you still trying to get her to marry that man? She never will if she has a say in the matter. Your conniving is worthless, and my daughter is gone!"

"My baby," Hélène moaned softly. "My poor baby girl."

At that precise moment, the door opened again and Edouard entered. "What's happened?" he asked, seeing his weeping mother and fuming father. He glanced frantically around the room, his face registering relief when he saw his grandfather. "Where's Isabella?"

"Your sister's gone," Yurick said calmly.

"Gone? What do you mean, gone?"

"She's run off with that fool knight Gavin," Frederich answered.

"They can't have been gone long. Have you sent anyone after them?"

"Your grandfather refuses to."

"On the contrary, I plan to send Teren Thundergrad, as soon as he arrives," Yurick said.

"How can you be so calm about this? Your granddaughter is in danger!" Frederich cried.

"She's hardly in danger. While Isabella is rash enough to run away with the one she fancies, she'd never wed him. I'm not at all worried about her virtue."

"I'll go with him," Eduoard said. "He'll need my help, and I know Isabella better."

"You can't. We need you here, Eduoard. You are your father's only heir," Yurick said.

"I can't lose another child," Hélène added, her voice thick with tears. "Not another one."

Frederich put his arm around her comfortingly. "Take my wife back to her rooms," he instructed a servant, and Hélène, still quietly weeping, was led out.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Frederich asked as soon as the door closed behind his wife. "Teren's untested. He never trained as a knight, and I doubt he knows the country well enough to find Isabella."

"I'm positive. The boy may not have formal training, but he does have experience with common folk. He'll know how to get information out of them."

Frederich sighed. "Find my daughter," he said finally. Then he and Eduoard left, leaving Yurick to stare into the fire.

"Still," the old king muttered to himself, "it's well this happened now, and not after she was married."

* * *

Isabella pulled herself close to Gavin. Why was it so cold? How did the animals stand it?

She and Gavin were spending the night in a barn outside the city. They hadn't gone very far, mostly because Isabella's feet had blistered so in her shoes. Gavin had promised to wake her early the next morning so they could begin their journey again.

Despite his protestations of love, Gavin had been reluctant to leave. When Isabella had proposed the idea the morning after her parents had forbidden them from marrying, he had dismissed the idea as a passing fancy. Even now, he seemed to think they would be home within a few days' time.

A piece of hay poked Isabella in the back. When she shifted her weight, four more prodded her in various places. And now she was cold. She rolled close to Gavin again.

"For the love of god, take my cloak and wrap yourself in it!" he said irritably. "Can you let me sleep please?"

Isabella pulled away and reached for Gavin's cloak. She wrapped herself up tightly and fell asleep within moments.

The next morning dawned sunny and cold. Gavin shook her roughly awake.

"Come on," he said. "We've got to leave before the farmers come."

"What?" Isabella asked sleepily. She wasn't entirely sure where she was.

"I said let's go," Gavin said, a little more urgently. When she still didn't move, he grabbed her arm and pulled her up. He dragged her down the ladder and out of the barn.

When they were a safe distance away, he stopped and let her rest. She was breathing heavily, and the blisters in her feet seemed to have popped.

"Are you all right?" Gavin asked, seeing her expression.

"Why did we have to run?" Isabella asked breathlessly.

"We were in someone else's barn. If they'd discovered us there, we'd have been done for. Can you keep walking?"

Isabella pulled off her shoes with a wince. Her feet were red and throbbing.

"Did you bring any other shoes?"

"No. Why would I? All my shoes are like this," Isabella replied.

"What else didn't you bring, money? How do you plan to survive this if you're not prepared?" Gavin asked angrily.

"I'm with you, Gavin. Isn't that all that matters?"

He let out a sigh. "If you've got money, we can buy you what you need at the next town."

Isabella smiled at him and took his hand as they walked slowly onward.

* * *

"My lord king," Teren Thundergrad said with a low bow. "You summoned me?"

"I'm afraid I have bad news, son," Yurick said. "Isabella's run off."

It was the morning after the princess's disappearance. Yurick, now dressed and presentable, was holding an audience with his chosen rescuer.

"When? Where? With whom?" Teren asked.

"We discovered her gone in the middle of the night. I've chosen you to go after her."

"Why didn't you send for me immediately?"

"At the time it was a family matter. Now I need you."

Teren frowned. "Did she go alone?" he asked.

"She took that Gavin she was so infatuated with. I believe they plan to elope," Yurick replied.

Teren was amazed at the old man's calmness. He himself was struggling not to scream.

"Then, Your Majesty, I cannot go after her. If she has run away for love, I won't deter her," he said slowly. Every word hurt.

Yurick surprised him by laughing. "Like hell you won't," he said, wheezing. "You love her, and I'm willing to bet she loves you. She just doesn't know it. What she needs is to see you somewhere she's not being forced to marry you."

Teren smiled grimly. "Then I'll go," he said.

"Not quite, boy," Yurick said. He waved at a servant, who produced a sword wrapped in green silk. The king lifted it easily.

"This is for you," he said, holding it out to Teren.

"Your Majesty, I can't accept this."

"You can and you will. It will help you on your search. It was the sword of Ivon the Conqueror, the sword with which he conquered nations. If it could battle half the world, it can surely find a lost princess."

"I cannot take this. It is too precious."

"You seem to forget, Teren Thundergrad, that you too are a descendant of Ivon the Conqueror. He would have wanted this sword to be used, particularly in a quest to find one of his direct descendants."

Teren took the sword in his hand. It was a two-handed broadsword, and yet he wielded it easily with one hand. He gave a few practice swings.

"What is it made of?" he asked incredulously.

"Dwarven silver, using elfin handicraft. Ivon had it made when he made peace between the two peoples, and he later used it to slaughter them. Its blade will never rust or dull, and to any heir of the conqueror, it is light as air."

"Your Majesty, I will treasure this gift," Teren said with a low bow.

"Do not thank me, boy. The sword chose you."

Pondering these parting words, Teren slipped out of the throne room.

* * *

Isabella paused when she heard a bell in the distance.

"Listen, Gavin," she said excitedly. "We're near a town!"

Gavin smiled. "So we are."

"Let's hurry! We can get a room at the inn and spend the night indoors!"

She grabbed Gavin's hand and dragged him down the hill toward the village that was now in sight.

"Maybe," she said dreamily, "we can even find a minister to marry us!"

Gavin stopped and pulled her back. "We can't do that, Isabella. You know that."

"Why not? We're in love, aren't we?"

"We're still too close to the capital. You could be recognized, and then we would both be arrested, and I would probably be executed for treason. You know it is treason to wed a noble without the king's permission."

Isabella frowned. Why wouldn't Gavin agree to marry her? Wasn't that the reason they'd run away together? If this was what she was going to hear, she might as well go back home!

The two of them had been on the road nearly two weeks. Their progress was slow, but steady. With Isabella's money, they had been able to stay at an inn almost every night, and they were far more comfortable and less noticeable in their new peasant clothing. Isabella's new shoes protected her feet from blisters.

_And every night_, Isabella though irritably, _we sit in our room and kiss, and he still won't marry me!_

Indeed, Gavin's reluctance to wed chafed at Isabella more than anything else. He loved kissing her, and she him, but she wanted more than kissing. At the same time, she refused to give him anything more until he married her. And he refused to marry her at all.

They had decided, at last, to head for Speroa. Frederich and Ethelaine, Speroa's queen, had been close friends for a long time, but Isabella was confident the romantic, rebellious queen would grant Isabella and Gavin asylum and perhaps even permission to wed.

"My grandfather won't have you executed for treason. He'd have to kill me first, and he'd never do such a thing. Please, Gavin, let's get married," Isabella pleaded.

"Marriage costs money. The closer we get to winter and to the mountains, the more we'll like to stay in inns. We should save our money until spring."

Isabella hissed in frustration. Why was he being so difficult?

They reached the town long after dark and rented a room. They had, by now, perfected their story- Gavin was a blacksmith's apprentice, on his way back home from the big fall market in the capital, and Isabella was his sister. They occasionally got questioning looks, as Isabella's red-blonde hair and fine features contrasted with Gavin's heavier jaw and curling brown hair. If they were questioned, Gavin would simply say that Isabella took after their mother and he after their father. He would point out their matching eyes to convince any doubters.

Once they were safely ensconced in their room, Isabella dozed off while Gavin bathed. When he had finished, he bent over her bed and kissed the back of her neck.

"Stop it, Teren, that tickles," Isabella said drowsily.

"Teren?" Gavin asked. "I'm Gavin. Why are you thinking about Teren?"

Isabella jerked awake. "What?" she asked. "I must have been asleep."

Gavin frowned angrily. "Asleep and dreaming of Teren Thundergrad. Why are we doing this if you're only going to think of him?"

Before Isabella could reply, Gavin blew out the candle and rolled over. She stayed awake for several more hours, watching the moon and wondering why Teren was on her mind.

* * *

**Sorry about the delay. I've had a minor case of writers' block. But it's all better now!**

**Thanks again to my lovely beta, Billi, for finding my errors.**

**Leave a review!**

**~~Mazzie~~**


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

"Father, this is most improper!" Arija protested again.

Arefi didn't look at her. His face was cold-- hard-- as it had been since the day of Jalila's death.

"It is not improper if I have declared it," he said severely.

Arija opened her mouth to argue, then thought better of it. There was no reasoning with him.

"Mother, please, tell him he cannot do this!" she pled with her mother instead.

Amira shook her head gently. "Your father is intent upon this plan. Not even a league of demons could deter him." She smiled at her husband, but he refused to meet her gaze.

The issue in question was the construction of a small tent adjacent to the girls', to hold those men who came to solve the mystery of their nightly disappearances. Besides the obvious problem of the girls' virtue, having a man so close would only cause their secret to be more easily discovered. Their year would not be completed, and one of them- most likely Arija, as eldest and daughter of the chief wife- would be forced into marriage anyway.

The tent looked innocent enough. It was hardly large enough to hold a comfortable bed, a chair, and a small lampstand. Arefi did not count on the competitors needing more.

Over the course of the past week, Arefi had carefully outlined his contest. Each participant would have three nights in the small tent to determine where the girls went by night. On the fourth morning, he would report to Arefi with proof of his story, and the lucky man could marry any of Arefi's daughters he chose.

He had waited until he heard news of men arriving, and then he had had his men begin setting up the tent. His only obstacle was his stubborn daughter.

"If you are worried about your virtue, daughter," he said sternly, "I have hired a woman to watch the young man. She will protect you."

Arefi gestured at a shape Arija had not previously noticed. When the woman approached, Arija struggled to hide her surprise. It was the fortuneteller who had gotten them into this mess.

"Good morning, dearest," the woman said in a simpering voice. "Your honorable father has chosen me to guard you and your sisters from the potential ravages of the young men come to solve this mystery."

Arija noticed with satsifaction Arefi's discomfort at this statement. "The potential ravages of young men", indeed.

A servant approached and bowed low. "If it please you, Master," he said, "the contestant from Tribe Weir has arrived."

Arefi gave a nod of dismissal and excused himself. Amira followed behind him, leaving Arija alone with the fortuneteller.

"Well, dearest, shall we meet your sisters?" the woman asked.

"Of course," Arija replied with a forced smile. Her sisters would be in the weaving tent, and so she led the woman there.

Lahleh leapt up when her sister entered. "Have you had any luck with Father?" she asked. Before Arija could answer, Lahleh noticed the fortuneteller. "What is she doing here?"

"I must speak with all of you regarding our contract," the old woman replied. "Some of you seem to have forgotten the terms."

She glanced pointedly at Nasimi, who sat unseeing before her loom.

Arija's brow furrowed and her lips twitched into a frown. She could not allow this woman to molest her sister. Nasimi had not been the same since Jalila's death. She had shorn off her lovely hair and stopped eating. She was haggard and dazed, and she had not been dancing for almost two weeks.

"My son has missed you," the fortuneteller continued, approaching Nasimi. "For two weeks he has waited for his lovely maid to dance with him, and for two weeks she has not come. Why have you not come?" When Nasimi ignored her, the woman cried, "Answer me!"

Nasimi blinked slowly, and when her eyes opened they were alert and angry. "My mother died, and I was not beside her because I was dancing with your fool son! I want no more of this."

The woman hissed angrily, and to Arija she resembled nothing so much as a snake. "You will return tonight to the dancing pavilion, and you will dance with my sons, or I shall strike you barren, that you may never bear sons to your honor."

Nasimi flinched, but did not look away. "I will not dance with your son," she said coldly.

The fortuneteller raised a hand angrily, but Arija grabbed her wrist.

"Leave her be," she said angrily. "She is still upset by her mother's death. If you must punish someone, punish me."

The old woman's face cracked in a smile. "What a noble girl you are," she said softly. "You will make a good wife for my son."

Something in her tone made Arija shudder. As little as she liked the prospect of marrying a prince of Marigina, she liked less the prospect of marrying her black-eyed dancing partner. She released the woman's arm and pulled away.

"Now girls," the fortuneteller said, "we must discuss how to avoid these contestants your father insists on presenting."

The girls stared at her, openmouthed. Clearly, this woman was more than a mere fortuneteller. Whoever she was, she was a force to be reckoned with.

Arija was the first to break out of her stupor. "Please, sit," she implored the old woman, falling back on manners to disguise her fear. She beckoned her sisters to her, and they sat around the old woman.

"Now," the old woman said, "you girls have presented several problems. First, you were discovered, and now we have this ridiculous contest to deal with. That is managed easily enough, however. Then one of you stopped dancing." Again the woman looked at Nasimi, who remained before her loom, having refused to join the circle.

"In order for our deal to remain valid, you must begin your time anew," the old woman continued. Several of the girls groaned. Arija was hard-pressed to keep from joining them. She merely smiled complacently.

"This is just," she found herself saying. "Our deal was that each of us should dance with one of her sons every night for one entire year. We never made any concessions for illness or mourning. We must uphold our end of the deal if we expect her to uphold hers."

The old woman smiled at Arija. While the expression looked pleasant enough, there was an air of hostility in it.

"Do as your sister says," she said. "She speaks wisely."

Lahleh was the first to nod. "Come, sisters," she said with forced enthusiasm. "We must maintain our honor."

Grudgingly the sisters nodded. What was another year?

Nasimi remained unmoving. The fortuneteller looked expectantly at Arija.

"Nasimi," she said gently, "can we also count on you?"

"I will not be found missing when I am needed again," Nasimi said angrily. "Do not convince me to join you."

"Nasimi, it is all of us or none of us. Would you ruin this chance for us?" asked Siran. So she had once convinced Arija to continue dancing.

"What chance is it? To marry a black-eyed demon and bear black-eyed demon sons? You say you want this?" Nasimi asked.

"It is not as if we will marry anyone else or bear any other sons," Ayman said sadly. "Our best chance of marriage is this. We will not be spinsters because of your sadness."

"Nasimi, please," Arija said softly. "Will you not just try it for a year? Your mother cannot die again."

Immediately she knew she had said the wrong thing. Nasimi paled and her eyes grew dangerously dark.

"You would bring my mother into this?" she hissed. "You would prey upon my grief to force me unwillingly into a contract? From the old woman, from another sister, I would have expected this, but from you, Arija…You disgust me."

Arija felt tears in her eyes. "I am sorry, my sister," she whispered.

She chanced a look at the old woman. She was smiling, as though amused.

Arija crossed the room and embraced her sister. Nasimi did not move.

"Please, Nasimi," she whispered, so softly she wasn't sure she had spoken. "I promise you will not be forced into anything more than dancing. If you do not wish it, you will not marry your demon prince. We will break free of this together, Nasimi. But for now, we must do what is right for our sisters."

Nasimi wrapped her arms around her sister. A part of Arija nearly melted for joy.

"It is not right for them," Nasimi whispered back, "but they must realize this for themselves."

She pulled away and announced, "Very well. I will dance with my sisters."

The girls let out a cheer. The fortuneteller smiled evilly.

"Very well then," she said, her voice back to its original simper. "Now we must discuss how to deal with your father's contestants."

* * *

  
The first was the most difficult.

He was a prince of Tribe Weir, a nondescript, lumpish man with little other chance of advancing in life. Throughout their dinner together, he had stared hungrily at Arija, and she had had little doubt that his thoughts were dirty and disturbing. A pang of nervousness had clenched her belly. She did not want this man sleeping in a tent adjacent to her own. She did not want this man to discover their secret. She did not want this man as a husband.

Arefi had stated the terms after their dinner was finished.

"You will have three nights," he had said. "You will sleep in a tent adjacent to my daughters'. You will discover where they go and bring me proof. If you are correct, you may have your pick of my daughters to wed."

The man had practically drooled as he ogled Arija again. She flushed angrily.

"Furthermore," Arefi continued, "if my daughters or their nursemaid—" he nodded his head at the fortuneteller, who was seated in a corner of the tent— "should report any injury or improper conduct, you will be castrated and sent away without honor."

The man had blanched, and Arija took a fierce satisfaction in his discomfort. He deserved castration, that sick lout.

The girls had been dismissed first, so that they could prepare for bed without molestation, and the fortuneteller had followed after them.

"Prepare the drink," she instructed.

"Arija, you must take it to him," said Kíraz with a smile. "Did you see how he looked at you at dinner?"

The other girls laughed. It appeared everyone had watched this spectacle.

Arija made a face. "I most certainly did. What a disgusting creature! I will have nothing further to do with him."

Lahleh smiled. "You must. He will not accept it from anyone else. Pretend you are as attracted to him as he is to you. He will down this in an instant."

Roshanara produced the small bag of herbs the fortuneteller had given her, and Dílara produced a jug of fine wine and a goblet she had taken stealthily from the dinner table. The two began mixing the drink, using a small chest as a table.

"Just a pinch of the herbs, remember," Parvana called gaily. "They are potent enough to kill him if we add more than that."

"No one would miss him," Kíraz said jokingly. "Why should we not poison him?"

Dílara spoke sense. "If he is poisoned, the blame falls upon us. We must not attract attention to ourselves. If he but falls asleep, it is his own failing."

"We did not actually plan to poison him," Kader said defensively. "We know the consequences."

They heard the rustle of the man's tent flap opening.

"He is here!" hissed Siran. "Go, Arija! Take the drink to him."

Arija pulled the neck of her robe off her shoulders and combed her fingers through her loose hair, then took the goblet with a trembling hand.

She glanced at her sisters for approval, and they nodded, smiling. Slowly she approached the flap that led to the prince's tent and slipped inside. She could hear a rustling as her sisters gathered around to eavesdrop.

"Good evening," Arija said, her voice high and nervous.

The man turned to look at her. When he saw who it was, his face broke into a smile.

"My sisters and I have prepared a special drink for you. It is our own recipe," she continued, hoping her voice sounded sultry.

"And how do I know you are not attempting to drug me so I will not learn your secret?" he asked.

Arija's heart skipped a beat. Was she that easy to read? Still, she had to continue acting.

"I would never attempt to drug you," she said innocently. "I saw you watching me at dinner. I know what you were thinking. I want you to win this. I want to be with you."

She nearly gagged at the words coming out of her mouth. Surely he would not believe them…

He took the goblet. "Tell your sisters I thank them," he said as he gulped it down.

"I will be sure to."

As she reached down to take back the goblet, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her close.

"I will win this for you," he said.

Then he collapsed back on the bed and began snoring heavily.

Arija wrested the goblet from his limp hand. _Praise heaven, her drugs are swift_, she thought, as she slipped back in to her giggling sisters.

As the younger girls dug up the trapdoor and pulled it open, Lahleh leaned into her sister and whispered, "You performed wonderfully."

Arija groaned. "I will feel dirty for the rest of my life! That man was disgusting."

"Still, you acted well. Perhaps you should become a player."

"As if Father would ever approve of such a thing. Besides, I have never heard of a Pynterri player."

"Accustom yourself to that task. You have proven yourself very good at it. I would imagine our sisters will have you take in the wine every night."

"If I never have to do that again, I will be quite happy," Arija replied. The two of them laughed as they stepped down the stairs, closing the trapdoor behind them.

* * *

**Sorry this update took forever. I'm at a busy time right now...**

**Also, my formatting may be a little off. I'm on a Mac now, and for whatever reason it doesn't keep bold or italicized formatting. It's weird.**

**Thanks again to my lurvely beta Billi!**

**R&R!**

**~~Mazzie~~  
**


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Teren wrinkled his brow and tried to think.

_Where would Isabella go?_ he asked himself.

The trail had gone dry. For several days he had tracked Isabella and Gavin in the villages around Kellineton, but as he traveled farther away and the villages became scarcer, he was having trouble finding them.

Tonight he was staying at an inn in a one-street village, enduring the stares of other travelers. They noted his sword first and his fine clothes second. For now he wasn't bothered, but he surmised that once out of town he might meet with trouble.

"A young red-haired girl with a curly-haired man," he had asked the innkeeper. "Have they passed this way?"

The man had scratched his head. "Not that I remember," he had said. "And I don't see many redheads around here, so I'd remember."

Teren had thanked him, hiding his disappointment poorly. He made up for it by renting the inn's best room.

Now he forced himself to think. He was Isabella. Where was he going?

If she wanted to marry, as he thought she did, she would have to leave the country. She hadn't gone for a boat, so she was staying on this side of the ocean. And she'd been heading mostly north, which meant Ilia, Idaarolaa, or Speroa was her destination.

_Speroa_, he thought. Frederich and Ethelaine had always been rather close after their failed engagement. While Isabella had never met the Speroan King, she would go to Ethelaine if she wanted her marriage.

Teren smiled into his mug of ale. He had picked up the trail again.

* * *

Isabella and Gavin sat silently over dinner.

"That innkeeper's staring again," Gavin muttered under his breath. "Stop acting like you're in love with me!"

Isabella opened her mouth to protest, but thought better of it and remained silent.

"We're brother and sister, remember? And we're common, so eat your food like you enjoy it," he continued, his voice rising to a loud whisper.

She glanced down at her plate and dutifully spooned some of the weak, flavorless soup into her mouth.

Over the past weeks, Gavin had become increasingly irritated, mostly at Isabella. She couldn't help but worry that it was her fault for dreaming of Teren. Gavin was jealous, of course, and she was only making it worse by thinking of someone more eligible than he. On top of that, she was pushing him to marry her when he wanted to wait until they were safe, their money was running low, and the harsh cold of winter had barely begun.

"What are you thinking about?" Gavin asked, his tone surprisingly gentle after his harsh words.

"You," Isabella replied honestly.

His face broke into a smile. "What about me?"

"Just how marvelous it will be once we're out of here and married." A white lie. Surely he wouldn't notice.

She could have sworn she saw his face darken, but when she looked again, he was smiling.

"It will be marvelous," he agreed.

"I think I'll go up to bed," Isabella said after a moment.

"I'll be up soon. Go rest. We have a lot farther to go," Gavin replied.

Isabella smiled and slipped upstairs, not even noticing the watchful eyes of the innkeeper's daughter.

* * *

Isabella was nearly asleep in the dark room when she heard the door open.

"Gavin," she murmured sleepily. "Up so soon?"

The door clicked shut. "Gavin's not 'ere," said an unfamiliar voice.

Before Isabella could scream, a hand closed over her mouth.

"Shh," the voice said in her ear. "Don' scream. I'm not 'ere to 'urt you. M'name's Nell. I'm the innkeep's daughter. I just wanna talk."

The hand on her mouth relaxed, and Isabella said, "Talk about what?"

The girl moved away and lit the candle on Isabella's bedside table. The light revealed a girl, perhaps a year or two younger than Isabella, with violently curly brown hair and fever-bright eyes. Although her face was plain, the energy in it made it hard for Isabella to see her so. Her smile revealed the crooked yellow teeth Isabella had gotten used to in her several weeks among commoners, but in Nell's face they looked natural and right.

"I wanna talk about your brother," Nell said. "Don' gimme the story. I've 'eard it a million times. 'E's not your brother, and I know it. I'm not about t'tell," she said quickly, noting the panic on Isabella's face. "I've never told. I'm 'ere to give ya a warnin'."

"I'm aware of the repercussions, if that's what you're here about," Isabella said haughtily. "Gavin and I are in love, and we're to be married."

"I know," Nell said. "That's the problem. You're the one who's idea 'twas, aren't ya?"

"Yes. He was just as willing, though!"

The girl smiled knowingly. "I'm sure 'e was. But 'ere's the problem, see? I seen a million and one girls like you, in love wi' 'er man and off to be married, and what do they find? As eager as 'e was, 'e doesn't wanna marry 'em once they get away from home. Now afore you doubt me, listen! When I came up 'ere, ya know what your man were doin'? 'E 'ad me sister on 'is lap and 'is 'and on 'er arse. 'E's not in it for you, miss."

"You're lying!" Isabella accused. "Gavin loves me! He'd never do such a thing!"

"I wish I was lyin', miss, for your sake. 'Ere, I can prove it to ya. 'As 'e said anythin' about marryin' ya?"

Isabella shook her head. "He says we have to wait until we get to Speroa, because marrying here is treason, and he'd be beheaded."

Nell nodded. "But 'e is after your virtue, am I right?"

Isabella frowned. "He respects my boundaries. I've told him we must be married first."

"You're smarter than most, then. If'n ya ever go back, you'll 'ave your virtue, and that's safest."

"But I'm not going back! Gavin and I are in love, and if I'd stayed, my parents would have forced me to marry Te— someone else. I won't have it!"

"I'm not sayin' you should go 'ome. I'm just sayin' you should consider forgettin' this idea of marriage wi' this Gavin fellow, is all."

"He really is down there…doing what you said? You're not lying?" Isabella asked. Her indignation had faded to despair.

"I'd show ya, miss, but I don' think ye'd like it," Nell said. "Me poor sister. 'As to put up with the likes of 'im every night. Tsk, tsk."

"Well," Isabella said, beginning to cry, "well, what do I do? I can't go home; they'll think I've been dishonored, and no one will respect me and— and I can't very well stay with him, when he doesn't even love me and would rather spend his nights in— in bed with a barmaid!" She broke into sobs.

"There, there, miss, there's no need for all that," Nell said, patting her shoulder in comfort. "Oh, I wish I 'adn't 'ad to be the one t'tell ya. I jus' saw wha' 'e said t'you at supper and knew I 'ad to save you. You were so sad t'look at, miss, an' I 'ad t'help ya! C'mon, now, you're makin' me cry too, see?"

"I'm sorry," Isabella said thickly. "But what will I do?"

"You said you were goin' to Speroa, right? What's there?"

"I don't know, Gavin and I thought perhaps the king would help us, but she's never even met me! It was a bad idea from the start."

"Now, now, don' go talkin' like that. Why don't ya head up to Speroa? I've 'eard the king's real nice, and she wouldn't turn a poor girl like you away."

"But I don't know the way, and I can't read a map, and I can't very well go alone, and— and—" Isabella broke off into sobs as she remembered all those nights, all those inns, where Gavin had said he would be up later; every time, she supposed, he had been with someone else. Oh, what had she been doing?

Nell's face brightened. "You don' 'ave t'go alone! I could come with ya! I'm mean wi' a map, and I'm good company, or so's I'm told. Plus, I've never 'ad an adventure, and you seem like nice enough company to have my first, right?"

Isabella smiled through her tears. "I'm afraid I won't be very good company. I'm rather useless when it comes to just about anything, besides daydreaming and sewing. And I couldn't protect you from attackers, and I don't have much money—"

"What do I care about that? That's why it's called an adventure, miss! It'll be loads of fun, and besides, Pa'll piss 'is pants in rage when 'e finds out I'm gone."

"Could you not use words like that, please?" Isabella asked. Her spirits were rising with the prospect of adventure.

"You'll 'ave t'get used to it if'n you're lettin' me come! This is 'ow us commoners talk, and I ain't changin' for your delicate li'l ears. Get your stuff ready whilst I pack meself up! I'll be back 'ere in two shakes of a lamb's tail!"

"We're leaving tonight?" Isabella asked. The prospect of traveling alone at night with only another girl for company was daunting.

"We can't very well leave in the mornin', now, can we? We gotta go now, afore your young gentleman rejoins you. Just be ready, and I'll sneak us out!"

Before Isabella could blink, the young girl had disappeared out the door.

* * *

Teren spurred his weary horse on. "Just a bit farther," he said soothingly in its ear. "We've almost reached the last one for the day."

Teren had, since his epiphany, taken up the practice of canvassing. He spent days riding from village to village, asking after Isabella and Gavin. His successes had continued leading him north, confirming his suspicion that the pair were headed to Speroa, but he had yet to run into either of them.

"Yes, a red-haired girl with a curly-haired boy," he said to the innkeeper once he'd reached the village.

"Oh, aye," the man said, immediately irritated. "The pair of 'em were 'ere las' week. Sat at that table over there. Brother an' sister, 'e said, but I've 'eard that story a thousand times if'n I've 'eard it once. They weren't brother and sister. Them," he said, pointing to a pair of youths, laughing and carrying on, "are brother and sister. Those two, uh-uh. So I watched 'em, ya know, cuz I don' want nothin' skeazy goin' on in my establishment, ya know? I'm a respectable businessman, ya know? And the boy, 'e sees me watchin', and 'e says something real mean to the girl. I could tell acause she got all quiet and didn't say nothing. Not that she were talkin' much before, mind you. She were a real quiet type, ya know?

"Well, anyway, my Nell sees this and gets all up in arms. She won' stand for that kinda thing nowhere. So a few minutes later the girl goes up to bed, and my Nell slips up after 'er. Meanwhile, this boy's got 'is 'ands all over me poor Bess—" he gestured at the barmaid, who was, Teren had to admit, quite pretty— "and 'e's orderin' drinks and squanderin' 'is money, like. Normally I don' mind a bit of spending— a man's gotta make money, ya know?— but I could tell they didn' 'ave much money, and I felt bad for the girl, ya know? Besides, 'e gets angry drunk. I tried t'keep 'im from orderin' too much, but 'e'd 'ave none of it, and the customer's always right, ya know? So finally, round midnight when only the 'ard drinkers is left, 'e starts makin' advances on poor Bess over there. She says no, my girl, acause she knows I ain't gonna stand for none of that nonsense from any child of mine. So this boy, 'e gets mad. 'E picks up a table— that one there, ya see?— and chucks it across the room.

"Well, I knows a brawl when I sees one, and I goes right up t'im and says, 'You've 'ad enough, up t'bed wi' you!'. And 'e gets pissy and won't go, so I get some of the more sober customers t'help me get 'im upstairs. 'E's piss drunk, can't hardly even walk. We get 'im upstairs, and it strikes me as weird the girl's not there, but I think, 'ey, it's possible nature called or somethin', ya know? So I don' worry about it. But the next mornin', 'e comes downstairs in a 'ot rage and 'e's goin' on about 'ow the girl's gone and do I know where she is? Well, I don't, of course, and I says so, and 'e storms back upstairs and slams 'is door and whatnot, and it's early and I've got sleepin' customers, ya know?

"And then me wife Sue comes in and asks do I know where Nell is? And then I sees the man comin' down the stairs with 'is pack and 'e's mad acause 'is girl done run off and I'm mad acause 'is girl done run off with my daughter! So I'm about to go tell 'im 'ow I feel when Sue says 'Naw, don' worry about it, let Nell 'ave 'er adventure. These parts are safe enough, and besides, you've gotta run the inn.' So I let 'im go off and I don' know where they went but God 'elp 'em both if'n I ever see either of 'em again!"

Teren had spent the duration of this speech picking out the useful bits of information from the innkeeper's opinions and worthless extras. _So, Isabella and Gavin have separated_, he thought. _Good for her!_

This was also good for Teren, as a girl on her own was far more noticeable than a girl with a man. He could only hope Isabella was still traveling to Speroa, and that he was still on her trail.

"If you wouldn't mind, sir," Teren asked the innkeeper politely, "could you describe your daughter for me?"

"Of course I can. She looks like me! I never 'ad a son, so I s'pose it's good one child looks like me. My Bess, on the other 'and, she looks like me wife Sue. Such a pretty thing. She'll be lucky one day! But my Nell, she's got me looks. Dark skin, brown curls— 'er 'air's awful curly, won't barely stay in a braid! She's rather short, too, but I'm just waitin' for 'er to grow— say, you ain't gonna try and find 'er for me, are ya? Sir, I'd be much obliged, if'n ya would. I'd offer you me best room, free for a night, and whatever victuals you'll be wantin', if'n you bring back my Nell."

"I'll try to find Nell for you, sir," Teren assured the man, "but I have to find what I'm looking for, too. If they're together, though, I'll make sure Nell gets home to you."

"Much obliged, sir, much obliged. Will you be stayin' for the night, then?"

"Yes, please. Give me the room they stayed in, if it's open."

Teren had made a habit of this lately. He liked to search the rooms for signs of Isabella. Sometimes the trail had gone so cold there was nary a sign of her. But other times he could swear the pillow smelled a bit like her perfume, and he was comforted by the gentle smells as he drifted off to sleep.

The man led Teren up the stairs to the first room on the left. "This is where they stayed," he said curtly before leaving Teren on his own. "Dinner's at seven in the common room, and it's Sue's best soup tonight, if'n you're 'ungry for it."

"Thank you very much, sir. You've been incredibly helpful," Teren said. He spent a long time sitting on the bed Isabella must have used, the bed farthest from the door, and thinking about her. He felt closer to her here than he had anywhere else, despite her not having slept here. Yes, he loved her. He'd always known he did, but lately the feeling had become stronger, and he felt if he didn't see her soon he would die. He had to find her, no matter what it took.

Later that night, after he had eaten dinner and crawled into bed, Teren heard a small clink as he pulled the blankets around him. He fumbled for a match and lit the candle, only to discover a locket lying on the floor. He recognized it instantly— Isabella's. She must have forgotten it in her hurry to get out. He picked it up and looped it around his own neck, where it warmed against his skin and brought him sweet dreams.

* * *

**So Isabella and Gavin are over and done with, at least for now. And now there's Nell.**

**Let me know if my formatting's off. For whatever reason, italics/bold/underline don't translate from Lucinda.  
**

**Your thoughts, opinions, and questions are appreciated! Leave a review! **

**~~Mazzie~~**


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

"Explain this again to me," Castor said. "How have I gone from being betrothed to not being betrothed?"

The two messengers shifted uncomfortably before him. They had arrived earlier that morning with conflicting stories for the Mariginese prince regarding his marriage.

"Well, Your Highness," said the first, haltingly, "when I left the oasis, I was under the impression that you were to marry the girl, who would follow after a month. She wanted to be with her sisters, sir. Then, as I was waiting for my ship, I met my comrade here—" he gestured at the nervous man beside him— "and he told me the engagement was off."

Castor turned his gaze to the other messenger, who was staring fixedly at the ground.

"Well?" the prince asked.

The man cleared his throat. "Well, a few days after my comrade here departed, Lord Arefi discovered his daughters were involved in something at night. He called off the engagement and promised any of his daughters to whatever man could discover where they went. I was sent to tell you."

"What manner of 'something'?" Castor asked.

"That's just it, Your Highness. Lord Arefi doesn't know. That's why he's set up a contest. I'm afraid you can't marry the girl unless you win."

Castor sighed angrily. Why did destiny have to be so difficult?

"Well, is she worth it?" he heard himself ask.

"She's beautiful, if that's what you mean," said the second messenger.

"And an alliance between the Royal House of Marigina and the most powerful tribe in Pynterre cannot be to your disadvantage," said the first.

Castor dismissed the two men. He needed time to think.

Beautiful, he heard the man say. He knew she was beautiful. He had known since he had first seen her, seated by his side at a royal banquet. That vision, nearly a year old, had driven him in his quest to marry her. He had hoped for an idea of _her_: her personality, her whims and quirks, her voice, her mannerisms. He had thought himself destined to marry her, but now it seemed as though the world had shut him out.

_Unless…_

Unless he traveled to Pynterre. Unless he competed in the contest and won. Then he could take Arija as his wife and bring her home with him, back to Marigina and the city on a hill.

He walked to the large bay window and gazed out, past the walls of the city and into the vast green rainforest beyond. He had grown up here— in the heat and humidity, in the forest. Could he leave it for a harsh desert and a girl he didn't know? Could he force a girl to come here from the desert? Would she belong? He had thought she would— it was destined to be so; he had seen it— but now he was beginning to have doubts.

The door banged open, interrupting his train of thought.

"Castor!" said a loud, booming voice. "What is this I hear about your engagement?"

Castor sighed, but did not turn around. He was in no mood to face his father now. "It will not happen, Father, as I'm sure they've told you. This Lord Arefi has his own ideas for his daughter, and they do not include me."

"They don't exclude you either. Why not participate in this contest of his?"

To Castor's surprise, his father's tone was not angry, but entirely expressionless, as though he had no feelings on the subject.

"I do not know. I cannot decide if this contest is worth entering. An alliance would be beneficial for both our countries, it is true, but I don't know if I could win her. And I do not know if she would be happy here."

"Why do you doubt yourself now? As your visions have shown, she will come back with you to live as your wife."

"My vision was before Lord Arefi's contest. I do not doubt that the future has changed."

"Then, my son, there is only one solution. You will have to see it for yourself," the king replied sternly.

"Nightflower. Of course," Castor said. The potent elixir made from this rainforest plant would enhance his seer's blood and grant him true and powerful visions. His family had used it for ages, but the young prince had yet to experience its power. There was no escape, however; his father's suggestion was more like an order.

"I shall have the alchemist prepare you a draught of nightflower. You may report what you see to me in the morning."

"As you will, Father," Castor said. His father left without another word.

It wasn't long before the door opened again, this time for Castor's brother Godric.

"I've only just heard the news," he said, embracing his brother. "I'm so sorry."

Castor pulled away with a shrug. "It means nothing. I didn't know the girl, and I hardly had time to realize I was marrying her before I found out I wasn't."

"But you wanted it. You dreamed of her, without taking nightflower. You were meant to be."

"I am more concerned with Father's reaction to my failure," Castor said.

"I saw him leave. What did he tell you?" Godric asked.

"He demanded I determine my own future by taking nightflower. I'll get a potion tonight."

"At least he wasn't angry."

"This was worse. He was cold and demanding, as though I were a servant and not his son. I would have preferred rage to this."

Godric laid a hand on Castor's shoulder. "He simply wanted his alliance," he said. "He will respect what the nightflower shows as your path."

"I know he will. I don't know that I shall."

"Why not? Nightflower has been used for generations to bring on powerful visions. It speaks truly of the future. There can be no disadvantage to taking it."

"Nightflower has led men to do wicked things in search of their promised futures. Knowing the future is dangerous, even if it is only in glimpses. I would rather rely on what my natural ability chooses to show me," Castor explained.

"Those men were foolish and misguided. You have me, Father, and all his advisors to counsel you. You are in no danger from the nightflower. Besides, has your natural talent shown you anything since the first vision?"

Castor looked away. "It has not. Perhaps it does not want me to know the future."

"Or perhaps it is waiting for enhancement. Will you not try to strengthen your sight?"

"Fear not. I will do Father's will. I simply will consider my vision carefully," Castor said.

Godric's face broke into a smile. "There's the brother I know!" he exclaimed. "Do you want me with you?"

Castor shook his head. "I wish to have this vision alone. I promise you I will tell all. I am simply not ready to have a witness to something like that."

"You have taken nightflower before. It shouldn't be that bad."

"You have heard the stories as well as I have, and I doubt they exaggerated overmuch. Besides, there is a difference between chewing a few leaves for a dare and drinking a purified cordial."

Godric sighed. "I want to be the first person you tell," he said, embracing his brother again. "Be well."

Castor turned back to look out the window and listened to his brother's footsteps fading down the hall outside.

--

He was in a crowded, busy room. Many girls-- there must have been at least a dozen-- fluttered around, tossing clothes and cosmetics everywhere. They were giggling and chattering excitedly, as if they were going somewhere special.

"Hush, my sisters," said one girl. Castor turned and looked at her. It was _her_. Arija. Though it had been a year since his first vision of her, he would know her face anywhere. "We do not want to wake our guest," she continued.

She couldn't keep from smiling, and the other girls only giggled all the louder.

"He will not wake," said a younger girl. "The fortuneteller's herbs are far too strong."

He was in a garden filled with beautifully jeweled trees. He looked around for the girls and caught a glimpse of them walking in a straight line down a path, Arija in the lead. All of them were dressed in their finest, and Castor couldn't help but notice how beautiful Arija was.

Arija was in the arms of a black-eyed demon. Their embrace was amorous, but her face showed nothing but sadness. He bent down and kissed her, then pulled away, leaving her weeping.

"Look at the rainforest," Castor heard his voice say. "Isn't it beautiful?"

He turned to see Arija at his side. She was dressed in Mariginese style, a cut which looked odd on her. She was clearly less than comfortable.

"It is not the desert," she whispered, turning away before she had even glanced out the window. "It is not home."

He felt his heart breaking.

He woke up. He was lying on a hard pallet, held down with leather straps across his chest and legs. His first sight was his brother's face.

_Why is Godric here? I asked him not to come...Something must have gone wrong._ Castor's thoughts were vague, clouded from nightflower.

"I told you not to come," Castor said, already irritated. His voice was rough. "I didn't want you to see me like this."

"I had to," Godric replied.

"How long have you been here?"

"Not long. You were quieting down when I came in."

Godric took Castor's hand. Castor's suspicions were immediately confirmed. Something was wrong.

"Why did you come? I asked you not to, and you've always respected my wishes."

Godric sighed. There was a deep sadness in his eyes. Rather than reply, he loosened the straps confining Castor and helped him sit up.

"Godric, what's going on?" Castor asked.

"I don't know how to tell you," Godric replied slowly, his eyes fixated on the wall behind Castor.

"Tell me what? What's happened, Godric?"

"It's Father. He-- he's dead, Castor." Godric's voice broke on the word "dead". Castor couldn't breathe.

"How? When?" he whispered, his eyes searching Godric's face for some sign that this was all a horrible joke.

"His heart. Barely an hour after you went into your trance. It was all so sudden…" he trailed off.

"You were with him? He wasn't alone?"

"He was with his man Lemuel. He was being undressed when he collapsed. By the time I heard, he was gone."

"This can't be happening. This is a joke, or the nightflower-- yes, the nightflower: that must be it. This is a vision of the future. It's clearer than any I've ever had--"

"It's not the nightflower," Godric interrupted. "I'm king, Castor."

"King? No, no, it can't be…"

"Come on. You're exhausted. Let's get you to bed. You can sleep off the nightflower, and everything will make more sense once you've rested."

Godric grabbed Castor's arm and gently helped him up. He tried to protest, to insist that he could help, but he was so exhausted that Godric easily batted away his feeble efforts. The two of them made their way back to Castor's chamber, where Castor lay down and closed his eyes. He drifted off to sleep just as the first rays of sunshine filtered through the window.

--

Castor woke disoriented. The light in his chamber clearly indicated that it was midafternoon, so why was he still in bed?

Then it hit him. _Nightflower. Father is dead. Godric is king._

He sat up too quickly and had to close his eyes until his head stopped pounding. Was any of this real?

"So, you're awake," said a voice.

Castor glanced up and recognized Lemuel, his father's servant.

"Your brother told me to keep an eye on you until you woke," the man continued. "How are you feeling?"

"Did it happen?"

Lemuel sighed. "I'm afraid it did, Your Highness. I was there."

"Are you all right?"

"Are you?"

Castor shook his head. "I don't think I will be for a while. I need to see Godric."

"Would you like to clean up first?"

Castor suddenly realized how he must look-- mussed, pale, unshaven, his clothes wrinkled. He let Lemuel change him, comb his hair, and shave him. When he looked presentable, if rather pale, he went in search of his brother.

Godric looked up immediately when Castor entered the conclave. Although his councilors— _his_ councilors, not Father's any longer— strove for his attention, he waved them away.

"A moment, please," he said. "This is important."

As soon as the room had cleared, Godric turned and embraced his brother.

"Castor," he said softly. "Are you all right?"

Castor nodded into his shoulder. Somehow, his brother's embrace brought tears to his previously dry eyes. "I'll be fine," he replied, although his voice shook.

"Do you need me? The councilors can wait--"

Castor pulled away, cutting him off. "No, they can't. I'm leaving, Godric."

"Stay! You have the same rights I do to hear them--"

"That's not what I mean. I'm leaving home. I'm going to Pynterre to compete for Arija's hand."

Godric stared at him. "When?" he asked finally.

"I'll stay for the coronation and the funeral, but not long after that. This alliance is what Father would have wanted. I'm going to give it to him."

"What Father wanted doesn't matter anymore. Is this what you want?"

"I want this," Castor said, and something in his tone or possibly his eyes kept Godric from pressing the matter.

"I'll miss you, Castor," he said.

"I'll miss you, too, Godric." Castor looked around with a sigh. "I'll let you get back to your councilors, shall I?" he asked.

"You can stay if you want," Godric said, almost desperately. "You deserve to know what's going on."

"That's never been the prince's place, and you know it. Good luck," Castor said over his shoulder as he turned away.

He didn't see the pain in Godric's face as he left.

* * *

**Hi everyone! So it's been a while...a really long while...I hope you remember this story at least a little bit!**

**Anyway. Leave a review if you're still out there!**

**~~Mazzie~~**


	10. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Gavin was going home.

After a week of halfhearted searching for Isabella, he had given up and turned east. His plan had been to track the girl down, but he had lost her trail after only two days. Frustrated, he had thought of returning to the castle, but upon considering the repercussions of having run off with the princess, he had decided it was safest to return home.

Now, as he approached the dilapidated manor, he was beginning to have doubts. He suddenly remembered why he had left in the first place. From the road he could see detached shutters, broken windows, and holes in the roof. The further he went, the worse things got. The gravel drive was nearly overgrown with weeds, and the once beautifully sculpted gardens had become wild.

After several minutes of pounding on the chipped paint of the front door, Gavin let himself in. He was immediately hit with a wave of stale air and the scent of mildew. As his eyes adjusted, he frowned more deeply. The front hall was filthy, and as far as he could see in the dim light, every door was blocked off.

_If I'd known things had gotten this bad, I would have come home sooner,_ he thought.

"Hello?" he called into the echoing, empty hall. "Father? Meers? It's me, Gavin."

He heard a door slam upstairs and a man with a stern expression on his face, sporting an old, much-patched suit, appeared.

"Master Gavin!" he said. "This is quite the surprise. Come upstairs. Your father will be most happy to see you."

"It's good to see you, too, Meers," Gavin said with a nod to the manservant. "What's happened here?"

Meers fidgeted and stroked his thick mustache. "I'm afraid things have only gotten worse since you left, Master Gavin. As you can see, we've had to close off most of the house. Your father's chambers and the kitchen are all that we're able to use now."

Gavin shook his head in disbelief. "What about the money I've sent you? My winnings from the tournament? It was a hefty enough sum."

Meers sighed. "I'm afraid your father, even in his times of trouble, is more fond of spending than of saving. He squandered a good deal of the money on a fine celebration dinner for you, and what little was left we spent in closing off the parlor and the drawing room."

Gavin let out a sigh. "Take me up to see him, Meers. I promise I'll try to reason with him."

Meers smiled stiffly. "Thank you, Master Gavin. The Missus will be most happy if you could. She's unwilling to work for no pay, especially when we could find work elsewhere."

"Father's not paying you?" Gavin asked as they began climbing the stairs. He could now see that the hall was devoid of any form of decor, save for the threadbare carpet under their feet. "Where's everything gone? Surely Father hasn't sold it?"

Meers shook his head. "Sir Rodger doesn't have the funds to pay us, but he has yet to sell a single item. He absolutely refuses. He keeps a detailed inventory of everything in the house and checks it every time one of us leaves. He's even so paranoid as to have moved everything into his chambers where he can keep an eye on it."

Gavin opened his mouth to reply, but they had already reached his father's chambers. Meers knocked sharply and pushed the door open.

"Master Gavin, sir," he said stiffly before clapping Gavin on the shoulder encouragingly and slipping out.

The room was worse than Gavin had imagined it to be. Every surface was covered in vases, busts, and other knickknacks. Countless paintings stood against the walls, furniture, and each other. Piles of books covered the floor, along with rolled-up rugs and tapestries. Furniture was crowded into the room such that it was nearly impossible to maneuver.

"Gavin?" His father stood from one of six armchairs near the fireplace and turned around to look at him. Gavin was mildly shocked at how much his father had changed. His face was lined with deep wrinkles, his eyes pale and watery, and his curly brown hair— so like Gavin's own— had begun graying and falling out. As Gavin picked his way across the room, he noticed the stubble on his father's cheeks, the wrinkles in his clothes, and the dark circles under his eyes. Never had he seen his father look so unkempt.

"Why aren't you in the capital, training to be a knight?" Sir Rodger asked irritably.

"Hello to you, too, Father," Gavin replied sarcastically.

"Has something happened? Gavin, what did you do? You were months away from being knighted, and now you've done something stupid—"

"I need a place to stay for a while. I thought I would be welcome here."

"A place to stay? Why in heaven's name do you need a place to stay?"

"I ran off, Father." _Best to tell him now_, Gavin thought.

"Ran off? But Gavin, you were doing so well! You won that tournament! I was so proud of you. Why in the name of heaven did you run off?"

"I hardly planned it, Father. It rather...came up suddenly."

Sir Rodger scowled. "Explain yourself, boy."

"Isabella Ivonson fell in love with me. Her family wished to arrange a marriage with a different man, but she wouldn't have it. She begged me to run off with her. So I did." He couldn't keep a note of pride out of his voice. Having the princess fall in love with you was quite a feat, after all.

"Isabella Ivonson," his father said, as if trying to place the name. "Prince Frederich's daughter?"

"That's the one."

"She wanted to run off with you? To get married? Gavin, my son, that's wonderful! But why isn't she with you?"

Gavin frowned. This was the part his father wouldn't be especially proud of him for.

"I'm afraid she ran off on her own, Father."

"Ran off? I thought she was in love with you!"

"She found out about certain...activities of mine," Gavin confessed, fixing his gaze on the dusty carpet at his feet.

"Activities, indeed. A fine, delicate word for you dalliances. You've learned well at court, I see. I can only hope you bedded her first, at least."

Gavin bit his lip. "She wouldn't let me near her until we married."

"Why didn't you, then? Gavin, do you know what a marriage between our family and the royal family could do for us? We'd have money again. We could restore the house. I could die in peace, happy and proud of my son!"

"I will not be committed to her because you are too foolish to save your money! I will not be forced into a position of royalty for your sake!" Gavin roared, standing.

"You would never have to do anything! Her father would become king, and her brother after him. Your job would be to behave yourself at court functions and keep from starting a scandal. Not that that would be easy for you," Sir Rodger said scathingly as he also rose to his feet.

"You're a fine one to talk!" Gavin said angrily. At his father's questioning look, he continued. "Do you think the capital doesn't gossip about Sir Rodger Handley, the great hero of the war, the ambassador to Ilia, and how he lives in debt and squalor? Do you know what it's like, walking through the halls and knowing I have to work all the harder to prove myself because everyone _knows_ I'm your last hope?"

"What do you expect me to do?" his father asked, suddenly helpless. He collapsed back into his armchair.

"You're a damned idiot, you know that, Father?" Gavin asked. This broken man before him was not the father he remembered. "You live here and squander what little money you have on fine dinners while your house rots and your servants starve. You refuse to sell a single artifact, even though it could save you. Instead you sit and berate your son as if I were the only way to bring you out of debt! Well, I'm not, Father. You could do it just fine on your own if you would only learn to save your money!"

"You think I would sell anything in this house?" his father asked. "Everything here was your mother's! She decorated the house. She bought everything. To sell even the tassel on a tapestry is to sell a piece of her."

"Keeping her furnishings won't bring her back! It's not what she would have wanted. Do you think she'd rather you keep a vase and starve than sell it and live?"

"She would have wanted you to be successful. If she could see you now, she'd be so ashamed."

"Ashamed? Father, I am training to be a knight. I won a tournament against knights far more experienced than I. Princess Isabella fell in love with me, to the point where she begged me to run away with her and marry her. What have I done that my mother wouldn't be proud of?"

"You haven't managed to marry the princess, have you?" Sir Rodger replied angrily, rising to his feet again. "And you've quit your training to run about the country bedding every girl you come across— that is, except for the one that could actually help your case."

"I—" Gavin began, but his father cut him off before he could defend himself.

"I know what you do in the capital, Gavin. You claim to be so generous because you sent us your winnings. Do you think we're really that blind? I know what the real winnings were, and Meers knows. You sent us less than half. As for the rest of it, well, I can only imagine where that went. And now, _now_ you come to me begging for me to take you back so you can continue being a worthless good-for-nothing like you always have!"

Gavin was trembling with rage. "I see I was wrong in hoping you'd help me," he said through clenched teeth. "I suppose I'll find some cheap hostel to live in instead."

"Don't you _dare_ walk out that door unless you plan to return with the princess in hand," Sir Rodger threatened.

"I will not seek out Isabella. She does not want me, and I most assuredly do not want her."

"You will find her or you are not my son."

Everything inside Gavin froze. Was his father disowning him? He couldn't! Gavin needed his father, as much as he hated him. He needed this manor, where he had grown up, where his only memories of his mother resided, where he planned to spend his fortune in restoration to create the perfect home for his family.

"Maybe I don't want to be your son, then," Gavin said.

His father's face reflected the surprise Gavin felt at his words. But the more he thought about them, the more true they were. If his father disowned him, he would be free. Free of the obligation to his father, free to marry whomever he chose. He could do things without thinking of his family's honor. He could spend money on himself instead of sending it all home. And someday, when his father had died and he was rich, he could buy the manor and restore it, and when his family moved in he could tell them stories about it and show them secret passages he had found as a child. Suddenly, freedom from his father was all he wanted.

"You want to be my son, Gavin," his father said coldly. "If you aren't, you're not a noble. If you're not a noble, you're not a knight, no matter what training you've received. You'll never have that happy life you've dreamed of, because you won't be able to make the money you'll need. As much as you hate me, son, I'm your only chance at your future."

Gavin looked at his feet. His father was undeniably right. He couldn't succeed without his father, and he certainly couldn't succeed _with_ his father. His only option, it seemed, was that his father had offered: a marriage with Isabella. The last thing either of them wanted. His father had played a trump card. Gavin could do nothing but agree.

"What do you suggest I do?" he asked softly.

"Follow her. Apologize. Swear you'll never be unfaithful again," Sir Rodger said, his voice cool and commanding.

"I cannot do that."

"Your promise would only need keep until you wed her. After that, it's too late for her to do anything. Although I may suggest you be a bit more subtle in the future. The last thing the royal family wants is a scandalous member."

"What if she won't take me back?"

"Make her take you back. I know you can do it. You've seduced dozens of girls before; surely you can seduce one."

"Isabella's stubborn, though."

"Don't argue with me, boy! You'll do it, or you'll work as a servant for the rest of your life," his father said.

Images raced through Gavin's mind. Him, scrubbing pots in the palace kitchens. His old acquaintances laughing as he mucked out stalls. His pitiful store of money dwindling as he tried to drink off his misery. The girls he had once charmed so successfully rebuffing him mockingly. All that was in store for him was sheer wretchedness unless he did as his father asked.

"I'll do it," he said, defeated. "I'll find Isabella, and I'll make her marry me, by whatever means necessary."

His father smiled. "That's my boy."

* * *

**Hi. So, um, yeah. It's been _forever_ since I updated this story, which is horrendous, but I actually wrote the next chapter out in its entirety today, and hopefully I can write a couple more in the near future so I can update again. This chapter, however, has been sitting on my hard drive for well over a year and a half. I held back on posting it mostly because I forgot I hadn't done so. So yeah. New chapter woooo!...**

**I wanted to write this chapter to show that Gavin is a person, too, not just some womanizing jerk. I like complex characters. Poor Gavin. His dad is mean and he is poor. That's complexity, right?**

**Anyway, if you remember this story after all this time, drop a review! If you don't, reread it and then drop a review! If you're new, hi! Hopefully this won't happen again for a while!**

**~~Mazzie~~  
**


	11. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

"Arija," Arefi said, stepping forward to kiss his daughter on the cheek as she entered his private tent. She went willingly into his embrace; she struggled to remember the last time she had been this intimate with her father. Not since she had reached womanhood, she was sure.

"What was it you wanted of me, Father?" she asked, pulling the veil off her head. She hated wearing it, but now that so many men lived on and around the oasis, it was a necessity. The last thing Arija needed was to fall further from her father's good graces.

"Come sit, love," Amira said from further within the tent, patting a cushion beside her. Arija went eagerly to her mother's side.

"I wished to speak with you, Daughter, about certain financial matters," Arefi said, joining his wife and daughter on the cushions.

Arija's eyebrow shot up. Arefi, discuss finances with his daughter? Such a thing was unheard of.

Arefi smiled. "Do not be so surprised, Daughter. Are you not the most intelligent of my children? Have I not often wished you could be a son, to aid me as I grew old?"

Arija smiled, flattered her father thought so highly of her. "What did you wish to discuss?"

Arefi sighed and leaned back. "To be honest, Daughter, I had never intended this contest to go on for so long. Nor did I expect so many men to compete. We are already expending more than we have the money for in hospitality. We cannot afford to keep this up."

Arija bit her lip. She might have known her father would want only her confession. "Call off the contest, then," she said, a hint of her anger remaining unsuppressed in her voice.

"I cannot do that until I know where it is my daughters go at night," Arefi replied matter-of-factly. Amira stiffened at Arija's side.

"I cannot tell you that."

"And why not?"

"It is not my secret to tell."

The tent was silent for a long, uncomfortable moment. Then Amira spoke.

"Arija, your father did not lie earlier. He believes everything he told you. Please, Daughter, just tell him."

"If it were up to me, Mother, I would have told him long ago," Arija said quietly. "But that is a decision that my sisters and I must make all together, and many of them refuse."

"I shall force them to tell me!" Arefi cried, jumping up to begin pacing the tent. "They are my daughters, are they not? Is it not my right?"

"Arefi—" Amira reached her hand out to calm him, but he batted it away.

"Father, you must not," Arija said. "They will not tell you. Not even if you beat them senseless."

"I thought you, of all my daughters, would respect me enough to speak the truth."

"We are cursed!"

Amira and Arefi's eyes locked on Arija's, and for a moment she did not breathe. What had she just told them? And for the love of the gods, _why?_

"Cursed?" Arefi repeated after a moment. "How?"

Arija shook her head. "I cannot tell you. I can only say that we must do this, or we will be punished horribly. Please, Father, call off the contest. Let us complete our task, and we will return to you willingly."

Amira laid a gentle hand on her daughter's shoulder. "When did this happen, my daughter? Who has done this to you?"

She shook her head again, more forcefully. "I cannot," she whispered. "Please believe me."

Her mother pulled her against her chest and looked expectantly up at her husband, who had begun to pace still more furiously.

"I cannot call this off now," Arefi said, his tone clipped. "I would look a fool. How much longer must I bankrupt myself, Daughter?"

Arija met his eyes, tears in her own. "Six months more," she told him. "I promise, at the end of six months, all will be as it was."

Arefi bit his lip and looked away. "My wealth is spread thin enough as it is. But we can last six months more. My daughters must abandon hope of a dowry, however."

Arija stifled a gasp, reminding herself of the fortuneteller's promise, that at the end of the year they would each have a husband. Surely her father would be able to understand that. She nodded tearfully and pulled her veil over her head as she was dismissed.

_You acted well. Perhaps you should become a player._ Lahleh's words from all those months before echoed in her head as she walked back to the weaving tent, and her mouth was filled with the taste of betrayal.

* * *

"I brought you a gift," Godric said, holding a small wrapped parcel out to Castor.

Curious, he took it and pulled off the paper, only to reveal a silver cloak made of air and starlight.

"This is—" he began, but Godric cut him off.

"I know."

"I can't take this."

"You'll need it. I saw it."

Castor raised an eyebrow suspiciously at his brother. Had he, too, been making use of nightflower?

Godric laughed at the question in his brother's eyes, but the sound was weak. "I had a dream three nights past. I saw you use the cloak to follow the girls through a trapdoor."

"Godric—"

"It's a royal heirloom. You're a royal. You have every right to use it as necessary. I guarantee you'll put it to better use than Grandfather used to."

Castor smiled at the memory of his grandfather's frequent absences at state functions. He was surprised he remembered at all: he had been little more than an infant at the time. He stuffed the cloak into his satchel and slung it over his shoulder.

"You don't have to do this, you know," Godric said as he embraced Castor tightly.

"I know," Castor replied. "But I do have to."

Godric shook his head. "Father wouldn't care whether you wed her or not. He wouldn't stake your happiness on a political alliance. And neither will I."

"I care whether I wed her or not. I have to."

"Not simply because the nightflower showed it."

"Not simply because of that. She needs me, Godric. I saw it."

Castor turned to leave, his small satchel a burden on his back. The gangplank before him seemed impossibly long and narrow over the water beneath it, but the entire crew was waiting on him, so he hurried up.

"Castor!" Godric called after him when he reached the top. He looked back at him. "Be careful," his brother said.

"I will," Castor replied, too late realizing he had spoken too quietly for his brother to hear. The king raised a hand in salute, and Castor returned the movement. As he stepped onto the ship the waiting men pulled up the gangplank, while three others raised the anchor. It wouldn't be long before they were out at sea.

Castor went to find his cabin. It was a tiny room, with a bed that looked like it wouldn't fit him and a desk barely large enough for a sheet of paper. He sighed and sat down on the bed. It creaked loudly, and he shifted his weight, only to hear it creak again. He suddenly realized how very long two weeks was.

With a sigh, he got up and opened his satchel. It was filled with last minute items, those he had forgotten— or purposefully neglected— to put in his trunk. A dog-eared notebook came first to his hand, its leather worn soft to the touch. Within he recorded his visions, lest they fade from his memory. It had been filling up faster lately.

Beneath it he fingered the silky, sheer fabric of the cloak his brother had given him. He was filled with a sudden desire to try it out, but a glance about his cabin unearthed no mirrors. He was hardly of a mind to test it on the crew before they had even left port. He needed their trust and support until they docked in Pynterre.

He would not be wanted on deck for some time. He fingered one of the many small packets that weighed his satchel down, considering. Would he be missed if he sought the future now? He decided he wouldn't be, and unwrapping the packet pulled out two leaves of nightflower. He lay down on his bed, hoping the creaking wouldn't attract the attention of the crew, and placed the leaves on his tongue. As he chewed and released their bitter flavor, he felt himself drifting away.

He was in the palace, and Godric was dancing with a beautiful brown-skinned woman he didn't recognize. His brother's face shone in a way he had never seen before, and he realized Godric was in love.

He saw armies march across an unfamiliar countryside, burning as they went. He saw a castle in a tree covered completely in thorns and two men, nearly identical, facing each other with swords in hand.

He paced anxiously outside his chamber, listening to the screams within as Arija delivered their first child.

In a tiny hovel, a blonde woman smiled at a man who played the fiddle for her, but her eyes were shadowed with tragedy. Outside a kingfisher sang.

A man took a swan's egg into his hand and cracked it open, and within lay a human child.

Arija leaned in close to him, her hair falling over her shoulders, and promised him victory as he fell back into sleep…

Castor's eyes flew open. He was back in his cabin, though he had no idea how long he had been gone. He sat up slowly, as he had long since learned to do, and ran his fingers through his matted hair. As he washed his face and straightened his clothes, he wondered what possible significance his visions could have.

* * *

"Arija, it is time. Take him the drink!" Kíraz giggled.

Arija shook her head. "I cannot," she said. "One of you must take it."

"He will only take it from you! Arija, what is wrong with you?"

"I have lied enough today." She refused to say any more, and finally Roshanara, whom everyone agreed most resembled Arija, took the drink instead. When she returned, Arija lifted the trapdoor beneath her bed and followed her excited sisters down the stairs. She was so tired of this. Tired of the lies, the subterfuge. She wanted nothing more than for her life to go back to normal, to marry that Mariginese prince she had once been betrothed to and never think again about fortunetellers or dancing princes.

Lahleh slowed until she walked at Arija's side. "What happened?" she asked. "What did Father want?"

"He wanted a confession."

Lahleh's eyes widened. "What did you say?"

"I told him we were cursed and could not speak of it. He believed me." There was no need to burden Lahleh with her father's financial worries. Her sister would only concern herself with her own future.

Lahleh stopped and pulled her sister into an embrace. "I am sorry," she said. "But I thank you also. Not all of us would have been strong enough to lie to our father."

Arija pulled away, not meeting Lahleh's eyes, and continued down the path to the docks. Never before had she felt such shame, but as soon as she saw her prince waiting beside their tiny boat, it was replaced with fury. Fury at him for being so complacent, fury at the fortuneteller for putting her in such a predicament, fury at her sisters for refusing to back out when they had the chance. She had lied for them; why was she the only one suffering?

She seethed in silence for the entire trip across the lake. Only once she and her prince were spinning gracefully on the floor did she let her anger out. She purposefully stepped on his feet, watching his face for an expression of pain, but he remained as impassive as ever.

"I hope you know what we are doing for you," she said finally, her voice barely audible above the music.

At last his face reacted. He met her eyes and cocked an eyebrow, inviting her to say more, but remaining silent as ever.

"My father bankrupts himself to discover our secret. My sisters and I drug worthy men who seek only to know what we do at night. This very afternoon I lied to my father to protect our secret. All this to free you from your curse. I hope you are grateful."

For the first time since she'd known him, he broke his pattern. He took her arm and led her off the dance floor, out of the pavilion to the gardens she had barely explored. He sat on a bench beside her and mimed a question. _What is your name?_

Bewildered by his sudden change in behavior, Arija found herself unable to speak for a moment. "Arija," she said finally.

He rose immediately, found a long piece of wood on the ground, and scratched several shapes in the sand at her feet. She recognized none of them.

"I am sorry," she said. "I have never learned to read."

He snorted in frustration, then scratched another set of symbols. This time she recognized one: the "X" she had been taught to use in place of a signature.

"X," she said. "Is that your name?"

He seemed frustrated, but he nodded as though to say _Close enough_. With a swipe of his foot, the symbols vanished, and he sat again at her side.

_I'm sorry_, he mouthed at her, and for the first time she wondered if perhaps he did not want this either.

"I was supposed to be married by now," she said, a half-hearted continuation of her earlier rant. "Married with the beginnings of a family. Instead I am here, helping my sisters. Helping you."

He gently took her chin in his hands and drew her eyes back to his.

_Thank you_, he mouthed at her, and she realized that despite his demon eyes, he was human, just as she was.

* * *

**So this update was a lot longer in coming than I expected, mostly because I kept forgetting to do it. Hopefully the next chapter will be here a little sooner.**

**To clarify: Arija and her sisters are not under a curse. This was mentioned in an earlier chapter, but that was well over a year ago. The fortuneteller offered them a chance to break the spell on her sons by dancing with them every night for a year. They agreed in the hopes of all having husbands at the end. It was their choice to do so, and their choice not to tell their parents. I feel like this may be a little vague; hence the explanation.**

**Drop a review, s'il vous plaît !  
**


	12. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Teren reined in his horse outside yet another inn in yet another small town. If his calculations were correct, Isabella and her new friend Nell had been there only the night before, and he could spend the night here before picking up the trail again tomorrow. Perhaps, he thought optimistically, he could have Isabella on his saddle tomorrow evening, making their way back to Kellineton.

_And then what?_ he thought. _Take her home? Marry her?_ He recalled King Yurick's words, that Isabella did love him, but she didn't know it yet. He wasn't entirely sure he believed that, though he could still feel her touch on his arm when they had explored the secret passageway. She _had_ left Gavin, but from what he'd heard, that was only because she'd caught him with another woman.

He dismounted and tossed his reins to the waiting ostler. By now the routine was so familiar he could do it in his sleep. He pushed open the inn door, found the innkeeper, and asked about two girls, one with red hair.

But the innkeeper was not, as usual, stationed by the door. When Teren asked, he was pointed to the counter, where a red-faced, balding man was deep in conversation with a girl young enough to be his granddaughter.

"If'n you puts a pinch of rosemary in the chicken, it tastes loads better," the girl was saying enthusiastically as Teren approached. "Since we 'ired the new cook, we've got twice the business, just on accounta the chicken!"

He cleared his throat, and both looked up at him.

"'Ello, wha's this?" the girl said. "'E's a rich 'un, no doubt about it. Not bad lookin' either. 'E'll want yer best room."

"How may I help you, my lord?" the innkeeper asked, his accent much cleaner than the girl's. Proximity to the large city of Bordertown, Teren supposed.

"If your best room's not taken, I will have it gladly," he said. "But first I need to ask about some of your previous clients."

The girl was looking intently over his shoulder, distracting Teren until the innkeeper said, "Out with it, then."

"I'm looking for two girls," he said, the story pouring easily from his lips after weeks of practice. "One a rather tall redheaded girl, the other rather short and—"

The girl at the bar had blanched, and without explanation disappeared into the crowded dining room. Teren turned to see where she was going, but was distracted by a flash of what looked like red hair that vanished quickly up the stairs.

"Isabella," he murmured, and excusing himself from the innkeeper, turned to follow her.

* * *

"We have to leave _now_," Isabella gasped, her heart racing with adrenaline.

"Why? 'Tis a nice place, and we've already paid the room," Nell said, her own breath a little short after running up the stairs.

"Down the back stairs! Praise the gods, we haven't unpacked yet. Hurry!"

"Are ye gonna explain at any time?"

"Once we're out of here! Come on, we're five miles from Bordertown, it's big enough we can get lost."

Isabella had grabbed her rucksack and had her hand on the doorknob when she heard heavy booted feet in the hall. "He's coming! Out the window!"

"I knew it, ye've gone mad," Nell said, but she opened the window and shimmied down the trellis outside. Isabella followed suit, ignoring the thorns that cut her hands.

"We'll have to steal a horse if we're to outrun him," she thought aloud, but Nell grabbed her arm.

"We ain't about t'rob this inn. The innkeeper's a right nice fella. I'll not 'ave it."

"Nell, please!"

She couldn't be moved. Isabella let out a quiet shriek of frustration, then grabbed her arm and dragged her down the alley behind the inn. They sprinted out of the town, stopping only to wait while the guard opened the gate for them, and then ducked off the road into the brambles at its side.

"We ain't goin' nowhere fast in this muck," Nell said distastefully.

"We don't have to be fast. We just have to be unseen," Isabella replied, wincing as a branch slapped her cheek.

"Mind tellin' me wha's goin' on?" Nell asked after several moments of fighting through brush.

"That man was Teren Thundergrad. I was supposed to marry him before I ran off with Gavin. He must have come after us. Oh, gods, if he's after us Gavin must be, too!"

"'Ow many gentlemen you got wantin' to marry you?" Nell asked incredulously.

"Two too many. I'm done with men," Isabella declared, angrily batting aside a twig.

"But 'e seemed so nice! And awful 'andsome. Why'd ya leave 'im?"

Isabella sighed. "I didn't love him. I loved Gavin. But then he went and—" she stopped and shuddered, imagining the life she'd nearly trapped herself in. "And now I want nothing to do with either of them."

Nell sniffed. "I imagine ye'd be singin' a different tune if'n it'd been Gavin what was in that inn," she muttered, but a look from Isabella silenced her. They continued on in silence in the biting cold, until after an hour Nell said, "I reckon we've barely gone 'alf a mile. 'Less we get on the road, we ain't gettin' ta Bordertown tonight."

Half a mile was nowhere near far enough away from Teren for Isabella to feel safe, but her eyelids had started to droop and she longed for a warm bed for the night. So she nodded and followed Nell up the steep bank to the empty road. If Teren had come after her, he was well on his way to Bordertown by now, she reassured herself, and then stopped thinking and staggered exhaustedly after Nell down the moonlit road. She barely noticed when they slipped into town under the gatekeeper's watchful eye, blinked sleepily in the light of the inn Nell chose for them, and collapsed into the bed Nell led her to without even taking off her shoes. If Teren came for her tonight, so be it.

* * *

Teren kicked the foot of his bed in frustration. After weeks of searching, _weeks_, he had finally found Isabella, only to have her flee from him like a deer before wolves. What had he ever done to terrify her so? What did she think he was going to do? Take her back to the king and force her to marry him? As if he could ever do such a thing. All he wanted was to talk to her, understand what was going on, perhaps tell her—

_Tell her what? That you love her? She's likely to believe that._

Tonight had made it eminently clear: Isabella hated him. No, worse. She feared him. And now what was he to do? Chase her over the mountains and into Speroa? How would he ever find her in that vast forest? More than likely he'd be set upon by bandits and murdered before he had a chance to draw his sword. And his father would never know what had happened to him, nor his mother, nor Isabella…

His thoughts were growing unbearable. He staggered down into the common room, plunked himself into a stool at the bar, and ordered the strongest liquor they had in stock.

* * *

Teren hadn't come during the night, Isabella realized blearily as the dim winter sun on her face awoke her. She sat up, noticing only then how rumpled and dirty her dress had become in their late-night dash and how irreparably tangled her long hair was. She combed her fingers through it until it was at least passable before she braided it and tied it off with a small leather thong. Nell had already left, presumably to find some breakfast downstairs in the common room. With a sigh, Isabella accepted her haphazard appearance and left the room to join her friend.

Nell noticed her as soon as she appeared on the stairwell and waved her over to the bar, where she was happily chatting with two strangers.

"These men 'ave a caravan goin' over the mountain pass t'morrow, an' they're willin' t'take us no charge!" she said excitedly as soon as Isabella had sat down beside her.

"No charge?" Isabella cocked an eyebrow, suspicious.

One stranger, a tall man with a pock-marked face and watery blue eyes, nodded. "We're one o' the las' groups ta go over afore they close the pass. An' after yer cousin here tol' me abou' yer sister, well, how could I say no?"

Isabella shot a grateful glance at Nell, whose quick tongue and sharp mind had explained away their situation many times. She had clearly used one of their favorites this time, the story that Nell and Isabella were cousins, headed to Speroa to help Isabella's older sister with the birth of her first child. Isabella was only grateful it had worked so well to their advantage.

"I thank you for your kindness, sir," Isabella said with a small involuntary curtsy. When the second man raised an eyebrow, both at Isabella's clearly cosmopolitan accent and her odd manner, Nell merely explained, "She's worked at a lord's 'ouse as a maid near on seven years now."

Isabella flushed, not for the first time grateful to Nell's quick thinking for covering her mistake. Despite Nell's daily tutoring, Isabella's country accent still sounded stilted, and she had a tendency to forget it. Now, at the very least, she was covered if she forgot again.

"In tha' case, m'lady," the man replied, tipping his cap sardonically, "we'll be glad to have ye along. Many's the folk wha' prefers a genteel type ta do business with."

Isabella forced a smile, then excused herself politely, saying she wanted to look for a new cloak before they left. Nell was too caught up in her conversation to come along, so Isabella slipped out alone. She had heard many tales of Bordertown, and she wanted to appease her curiosity while she had the chance.

Their inn was located off the main road, but still near the middle of town. Despite their exhaustion, they had been smart enough not to stay in the inns close to the edge of town, where Teren was sure to look first. By the time he got to their inn, hopefully, they would be long gone.

Still, Isabella covered her head as soon as she stepped into the frigid air. Her hair had given her away last night, she was sure of it, and the last thing she wanted was for Teren to spot it from afar and come after her again.

As it so happened, it wasn't Teren she had to worry about. Hardly had she entered the main square when a strong, callused hand grabbed her shoulder and whirled her around.

"Isabella?" Gavin asked incredulously. His tone matched her expression, she was sure, for she never would have expected to see him again, much less in Bordertown.

"Gavin! What are you doing here?"

He looked away, and she noticed how much thinner he looked, how his eyes were sunken and dark-rimmed, how his cheeks were shadowed in stubble. What had become of him since she'd left?

"I was looking for you," he said. "I wanted to apologize. I never should have…you know."

Isabella's pity was replaced with a wave of annoyance. Did he expect her to believe this tripe?

"You're right," she said, not bothering to conceal her irritation. "And that's why I left."

"Isabella—" He took her hand in both of his, and a shiver ran down the spine at the memory of those hands gently stroking her hair, protecting her from evil at night. She shook her head to banish the thought.

"As soon as you left—" he began, stopping when she raised a dubious eyebrow. "As soon as I sobered up," he corrected himself, "I realized I couldn't live without you. No matter what I said before, you were my life. And I realized that I wanted to be with you. I wanted to marry you. At first I tried searching inns for you, but I decided it would be easier to wait here for you instead. Isabella, I was so scared I'd missed you and I'd never see you again. I know I've treated you horribly, but please—" His voice choked up, and Isabella felt the sting of tears in her eyes. "Please take me back."

_How could I resist such a plea?_ she wondered. She tried to find the resentment she had so long held towards him, but she couldn't. He was sorry for what he had done, and to top it off he had come here to wait for her, like a romantic hero, and apologize. It was just like a poem!

"Oh, Gavin," she said, but hardly had time to take a breath before his mouth sealed over hers and she was lost, for the first time in a long time, in the sheer joy of kissing a man who loved her.

"We're going with a caravan tomorrow," she whispered when he finally pulled away. "Over the mountains, to Speroa, like we always planned. Come with us."

"Only if you'll marry me once we get there," he replied, and the rakish grin she had always loved so well was back on his face. She smiled up at him before leaning in to kiss him again.

* * *

**Isabella, you gotta walk the walk if you're gonna talk the talk. Silly.**

**I would like to apologize for taking so long to update...again. One of my goals for this summer is to finish part one, and hopefully once I get to the climactic portion it'll go a little faster. And then, part two, which has some of my favorite characters and which (hopefully...again) I will be better at writing.**

**If y'all were to drop a review, I'd be much obliged.**

**~~Mazzie~~**


	13. Chapter 12

The line of tents stretched nearly a mile west of Arefi's oasis. After hours of traversing the makeshift town, Castor had given up on settling nearby and staked out a spot on the outer edge. His tent, he noticed now that it was set up, looked shabby and poor compared to the deep reds and purples of the tents around him.

_Why did I ever think it would help me fit in?_ he wondered. With his small, dull yellow tent and two-man staff, he looked little more than a beggar. His nearest neighbor, by comparison, had a tent five times the size of his and a dozen more surrounding it for his entourage. From what Castor had seen, this was one of the lesser displays of wealth.

A flicker of movement from behind a neighboring tent caught his eye, but when he turned, whoever had been there was long gone. He could, however, hear a girlish giggle from that direction, and his cheeks flushed. Arija's sisters had been spying on him. He was only too sure they would mock him and his apparent poverty.

"So, you have just arrived?" a voice said from behind him.

Castor turned to see a rather heavy-browed man, perhaps fifteen years his senior, regarding him curiously.

"I have," he said warily.

The man's face broke into a smile. "I have been here two months now, awaiting my turn. You will be lucky if the mystery is not solved when it comes to yours."

Castor frowned, trying to find the threat in this man's words. He got a full-bodied laugh for his efforts.

"We are hardly competitors, you and I," the man said. "It would appear this is a contest that cannot be won. Eight months it has gone on, and still no man knows the answer. All who remain here are merely here for appearances' sake. It would look amiss, would it not, if some man gave up his chance to win one of Tryggin's beauties?"

Castor wasn't entirely sure how to answer the man's question. He knew little of Pynterri customs, and less of their honor. The man laughed again.

"You are a foreigner," he said unnecessarily. "The first this competition has seen. Perhaps your eyes will see what ours have not."

"I come from Marigina, across the sea," Castor replied, unsure as to why he was volunteering the information. "Once I was engaged to one of Arefi's daughters. Our betrothal ended when the contest began."

"It is a powerful alliance, to be sure. Strange, though, that you should consider it important enough to sail across the ocean for it."

"Some things are meant to be."

"A cryptic answer. Tell me, Mariginese, is this how you will speak to your young wife when you win her?"

Castor looked away, embarrassed. He could hardly explain his visions to this stranger. At best, the man would laugh at him again; at worst, try to use him for his own gain. Castor had heard stories of such things happening to seers.

"I see I have offended you. I apologize," the man said. "My name is Binyamin, of Tribe Adalla. I am afraid I fall into both categories you will see here: I am a second son, and I am a widower in need of a new wife. This makes me doubly anxious to win."

Castor allowed a tight smile. "I'm Castor, prin— Crown Prince— of Marigina. I am here to win the bride who was denied me."

Binyamin laughed again. "Lofty words from a man so young, yet I suppose a man of your position must learn them well. Come, Castor Crown Prince of Marigina, and I will show you the object of your affection."

"That won't be necessary."

"Come, it is near dinnertime. If we are lucky, we may see the girls as they go to dinner."

It wasn't how Castor had hoped to meet Arija, but it would have to do.

* * *

"A new one has arrived today," Kíraz reported gleefully as she took her place beside Kader at the loom.

"What of it?" Nasimi replied irritably. "New ones arrive every day."

Kader rushed to her twin's defense. "Not like this one. He is _foreign_."

"That is interesting," Zara chimed in from across the tent. "We have not had anyone from a different country compete. What was he like?"

The twins exchanged a glance before Kíraz replied. "We did not catch more than a glimpse. He only brought men he hired in Aran, and of those only two."

"All he had was a trunk and a small satchel," Kader added. "He must be quite poor."

"Did you catch his name?"

"Or where he is from?"

"What did he look like?"

Arija forced herself to focus on her weaving as her sisters peppered the twins with questions. The two of them lapped up the attention eagerly, as all too often they were overlooked among their sisters. But when she heard the word "Marigina" she abandoned her pretense and joined in the conversation.

"Marigina, you said? He comes from Marigina?"

Elil raised an eyebrow at her. "Are you deaf, sister, that you did not hear? He came from Marigina to marry one of us."

"What is wrong?" Lahleh asked, seeing Arija's body tense.

"The man I was to marry was from Marigina. Surely he would not have come all this way for a political alliance?"

"It is a good alliance," Dílara said. "Father is the most powerful of the thanes here, and Pynterri glass is prized across the sea." She had ever been proud of their father's accomplishments.

"It is not that good an alliance," Arija pointed out. "Kelline's king has a granddaughter of fifteen years, and it would be a far stronger ally. It makes no sense!"

"Perhaps he has not come for you, then," Ayman said. "Perhaps he is just a nobleman out of Marigina who fancies a lovely wife."

"Perhaps," Arija said, but for the rest of the day she was distracted, wondering who this man was, who was so determined to wed her that he would cross an ocean to compete for her hand.

Hardly had she managed to forget this mysterious foreign suitor when she caught a glimpse of him on her way to dinner. He was standing with an older man she had seen before, and next to him the man's exoticness was unmistakeable. His skin was a far smoother brown, his hair a thick nest of dark curls, and his eyes were an intense green such as she had never seen except in dyes. His gaze was fixed on her, and she felt her face grow hot under it.

Was this the man she had been promised to? Had he come to win her in spite of her father's proclamation? Arija stopped just short of colliding with Roshanara. She shook her head to clear her thoughts before following her sister into the tent.

"That is he," she heard Kíraz say behind her. "The one who is staring so intently. Have you ever seen eyes such as those?"

"He is quite handsome," Dílara replied. "His eyes are so bright!"

"He is looking at you, Arija," Lahleh whispered in her ear.

"No surprise," Elil said irritably. "Every man seems to stare at her."

"You have had your share of admirers," Lahleh scolded. "There is no need for jealousy."

Arija smiled gratefully at her sister before taking her seat at Arefi's side. Tonight's competitor was a fat man at least sixty years old whose lecherous gaze was fixed on the young twins. He was not the first to want a bride so young, but that gave Arija little comfort. What if this one should slip by their defenses and win the contest? What would her little sisters do then?

She pushed her worries aside to focus on maintaining dinner conversation, but her thoughts kept drifting to the intense green gaze of the Mariginese man.

* * *

Arija sighed deeply as she gazed across the open desert. Here, on the east end of the oasis, the village of tents that had sprung up with the contest's inception was completely out of sight, the noises it brought muffled until they were barely noticeable. Here, Arija could imagine that the last eight months had never happened, that she was the eldest daughter of a wealthy thane, soon to be sent off to be married. Here, her sisters were her friends, their secret was harmless, and her father's wealth would provide dowries for all of them.

"What is wrong?" Lahleh's voice asked from behind her.

"Nothing." She continued staring at the windswept desert, gleaming silver in the moonlight. She did not look at her sister until she stood at her side.

"You only come out here when something is wrong," Lahleh said. "Is it the foreigner?"

"I feel as though I have talked myself through this a hundred times. I would have been wed months ago if Father had not discovered us. I will now marry whoever wins this contest, should he choose me. I have told myself this time and again, and yet one glimpse of the man I was to marry and I am upset all over again!"

Lahleh's hand found Arija's and gave it a gentle squeeze. "It is hard for you, I know. You were the only one of us who was to be wed. Sometimes, our sisters forget that."

"I hate the fortuneteller," Arija said bitterly. "She forced us into this, into doing it again when we were nearly done. It is because of her that I am not married, that Father is—"

She stopped abruptly. Lahleh could not know of her family's financial troubles. No one could. Arefi had trusted her.

"Father is what?"

Arija was silent.

"He does not have enough money, does he?"

Arija looked away, not wanting to answer, but her silence was all the response Lahleh needed.

"How bad is it?" she breathed.

"He can continue the contest until our year is up. But he will not be able to dower any of us."

Lahleh bit her lip. Arija knew what she was thinking: without a dowry, how were any of them to wed?

"No one else may know," Arija entreated softly.

"I will not tell. It is hard to hear, and the younger ones need not be burdened with it."

It was Arija's turn to squeeze her sister's hand. "Thank you."

The two girls stood in silence for a long moment, watching the moonlit sand swirl across the desert.

"I suppose we shall have our demon princes as husbands," Lahleh said, breaking the silence.

Arija could hear the distaste behind her optimism. "Oh, Lahleh," she began, but her sister held up her hand to stop her.

"Enough of this sadness and pity," she said. "Was your prince not a handsome man? The way he stared at you, as if he were seeing a goddess…you are lucky."

"Lucky? How? That the man I would have married finds me beautiful? I will not marry him now."

"How do you know he will not win?"

"I will give him the herbs myself, and watch him drink them."

"Watch those eyes as they fall asleep?" Lahleh prodded.

Arija could not contain a smile, and she playfully shoved her sister away.

"Admit it, he is a handsome man!"

Arija bit her bottom lip, though she kept smiling. "Very well. Yes, he is undeniably one of the most handsome men I have ever seen."

"More so than your demon prince?"

Arija thought of X, of his black eyes and unmoving face, of his manner that seemed always on edge, and then of the Mariginese man, who had looked at her as though she were the only thing in the world. Yes, this foreigner was handsome, but his was a beauty of this world. X was more like a god, exotic and unearthly.

"I said he was _one_ of the most handsome men I have ever seen," she answered finally. "I never said he was the most handsome."

Lahleh laughed, then took Arija's arm. "Come, our sisters will be wondering where we have been."

* * *

Castor couldn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Arija's face as she looked at him curiously. He should have known word of his arrival would reach her. His guess this afternoon had been correct: Arija's sisters had been spying on him. He wondered what they'd told her.

"I thought I could handle seeing her from a distance," he muttered to himself. "How wrong I was."

Seeing her in person had only increased his need to be near her, to speak to her, to touch her. His visions had shown her appearance, but they hadn't shown _her_, the aura of life she gave off, her expressions, her mannerisms. He felt like he had just had wine after months of only water, so great was the difference.

He stood up and began pacing the tiny tent, taking care not to trip on the rugs that covered the sandy ground. The rugs had cost more than the tent and hired servants combined, but now that he had been in Pynterre for a few weeks, he understood their necessity. They didn't keep the sand out of everything, but they went a long way to containing it.

Where was Arija now? Was she in her tent, preparing to disappear for the night? Was she standing on the edge of the desert, as he had so often seen her? Was she drugging another unfortunate competitor to keep her secrets safe? Had she been as affected by seeing him as he had?

The last question plagued him most. He wanted to find her, to introduce himself and gauge her reaction. He wanted to take her now and lead her back to Marigina, where they could be wed. He wanted…he wanted…it was more than he could put into words.

_Is this_, he wondered, _what love is?_

* * *

**So my goal for this month is to finish part one. Is that likely to happen? We'll see. In the meanwhile, reviews, por favor?**_  
_

**~~Mazzie~~**


	14. Chapter 13

The forest of Speroa was far less romantic than Isabella had dreamed it would be. The trees that towered above the small caravan had shed their leaves for winter, leaving long lines of crisscrossing shadows across the road. Absent were the shady glens she had always pictured; in their place were trees packed so tightly together that she could hardly see more than a yard beyond the tree line. Though the road was mostly clear of dried leaves, ominous crackles could be heard all around them. It had taken nearly half an hour for Isabella to become enough accustomed to such noises to avoid spike of terror whenever she heard them. They still left her uneasy.

"The entire country's like this?" she asked Gavin, who was still flexing his hand after her latest white-knuckled squeeze.

"So I've heard," he replied. "I know as much about Speroa as you do. Most likely less, considering how much reading you used to do."

"It's like an enchanted forest," she murmured. "I keep seeing fairies out of the corner of my eye."

"Doesn't that make you feel better? I thought you loved fairy stories."

"Not the _good_ kind of fairies. The kind you read about in the old stories, the kind that put curses on innocent girls." _Like me_, she added silently.

"Nonsense," he said, wrapping his arm around her and pulling her close. "There's no such thing as fairies. And if there were, well, I've got my sword here," he patted the hilt on his left hip, "and I'll scare them off."

She smiled and nestled into his shoulder. She'd nearly forgotten how good it felt to be with him. He was solid, warm, and comfortable. How could she have let her anger over one mistake overpower all that?

She caught a glance of Nell's face out of the corner of her eye, the girl's frown a clear indicator of her disapproval. Though of course the younger girl was being petty by not accepting, or even believing, for that matter, Gavin's apology, Isabella could understand Nell's point of view. She had no background in the chivalry of knights, nor in the church's message of forgiveness, as Isabella did. She couldn't be expected to think Gavin was any different from some peasant boy who'd betrayed her sister.

_Perhaps I should explain that to her,_ Isabella thought. _We've hardly spoken since Bordertown; I've been too busy with Gavin. Maybe she thinks I'm neglecting her._

Nell certainly didn't seem to lack for company. She spent her days chattering with anyone who would listen, and although there were nearly fifty people in the caravan, Isabella had no doubt she was friends with each and every one. _Except Gavin._

Though Isabella knew the names of most everyone, she hadn't really gotten to know many of them well. She'd spent the majority of her time reacquainting herself with Gavin, who had come back not only repentant, but also far more attentive than he had ever been before. He had hardly left her side since their reunion, and he was ever calling her sweet names and kissing her tenderly.

"I didn't know what to do when you left," he had told her their first night together. "I went back home to visit my father, but as soon as I saw the manor I thought, 'I could never live here again without Isabella at my side,' and I turned around and headed straight for Bordertown. I looked for you everyday until I found you, and seeing you again was the happiest moment of my life."

Isabella herself didn't think she'd ever been so happy in her life. Here she was, with the man she loved, heading for the capital of Speroa where they were to be married. She had evaded capture and arranged marriage in the form of Teren Thundergrad, and she had made a wonderful new friend in Nell. Now if only she could leave this awful woods.

Something sharp hummed through the air, and there was a thud as an arrow buried itself in the tree just left of Gavin. Isabella screamed as Gavin pushed her down into the wagon and covered her with his body.

"It's all right, love," he whispered. "It's just bandits."

"The Lord Leroi demands a tax on all caravans that pass on this road," a voice said from the trees above them. "If you surrender, we will take half your goods. If not, we will use force to take them."

"This lord must think he's awfully powerful if he makes such outlandish demands," Gavin muttered.

Isabella closed her eyes and wished the caravan would just surrender so they could continue on their way. A moment later she heard the driver's voice.

"We surrender, sir, though you can be sure we'll be tellin' the king 'bout you when we reach the capital."

Gavin sat up slowly, then helped Isabella back onto the hard wooden seat.

"Everything's going to be fine, see?" he said, noting her shaking hands.

Isabella nodded, then buried her head in her hands. "They could have killed you," she sobbed. "He _barely_ missed."

"He wouldn't have taken the shot unless he were sure," Gavin reassured her, pulling her close again. "There's nothing to worry about. It's over."

Isabella continued sobbing into Gavin's shirt, paying little attention to what was happening around her, until they were pulled apart by rough hands.

"What's this?" one man asked, eyeing Gavin's sword. Isabella recognized his voice as the one that had spoken earlier. He was a rough man with a thick beard and braided hair. He looked half a wild creature.

"We need weapons, LeRoi says," said the other, his hands dipping inappropriately low as he restrained Isabella.

"Don't touch me!" she cried, squirming. The man's grip only grew tighter, and she could smell his foul breath.

"I quite like this one," he said. "Mayhaps I'll take her for meself."

"You'll die first," growled Gavin.

"Give them your sword," Isabella pleaded. "They'll leave us be."

The bearded man shook his head. "Bring them with us," he said. "There's something rich about them; perhaps we can hold them for ransom."

"No!" Isabella heard Nell scream, but her wrists were already being tied and Gavin was unsuccessfully fighting off the bearded man and then she was slung over the back of a horse and the ground was blurring beneath her.

* * *

The bandit's horse finally came to a stop in a large clearing. Isabella was unceremoniously tossed to the ground, then jerked roughly into a large musty tent.

The man inside was tall and thin, she noticed immediately, and when he turned around she could see his long beard and the two long braids on either side of his head. His eyes were a piercing gray, such as Isabella had only seen once before, and they only added to his wildness.

"Who are you?" she asked, unable to keep her voice from trembling.

"I am called LeRoi, lord of the bandits," he said. His voice was cultured, as though he was educated, something Isabella had not expected. "The more important question is, who are you?"

Isabella took a deep breath and tried to recall the lie she and Nell had concocted. "My name is Isabella. I'm traveling with my cousin Nell to my sister's house. She's due to give birth, and she needs me to help her. Please, Lord LeRoi, let me go."

A faint smile pierced LeRoi's beard. "I think not. Your accent betrays you, my dear. No Kellinean peasant speaks so well."

"I've worked as a lady's maid these past seven years," she said. "I learned from her."

"And what lady is this, if I may ask?"

"Maria Lichen, daughter of Count Lichen, if it please you, my lord." Isabella hoped her friend wouldn't begrudge her the use of her name.

The smile grew broader. "A well-researched lie, at least."

"What—"

"My men found you with a man, not a cousin Nell, for one thing—"

"My brother—"

"Forgive me for doubting you, Miss Isabella, but I am told your embrace was quite amorous." His eyebrow raised in challenge.

"He's my betrothed. He came to protect us."

LeRoi's condescending smile grated on Isabella's nerves, but she dared not contradict him lest she fall deeper into her lies. He already had her well caught.

"Very well. You and your betrothed both speak quite well for two peasant children, and he bears a Kellinean sword of finer make than any mercenary I've ever seen. Either he is a bandit and has stolen it off some noble lord, or he is a noble lord himself. As for you, Miss Isabella, either you are an incredibly impertinent lady's maid, who interrupts her betters and drops titles when she is speaking, or you are a noblewoman unaccustomed to such humility. So tell me, which is it?"

She was trapped. She had no choice but to tell the truth and surrender herself until her parents could ransom her. She drew a deep breath.

"My name is Isabella Ivonson. My grandfather is Yurick Ivonson, king of Kelline. My father is Frederich Ivonson, and my mother is Hélène des Fleurs, niece to the queen mother of Ilia."

LeRoi's smile widened, and Isabella caught a glimpse of straight white teeth. "Am I to believe this any more than I did the story of Isabella the lady's maid? Offer me proof, my lady."

"What can I offer you? I have nothing but my word."

"Then tell me something only Isabella Ivonson would know."

Isabella searched her mind frantically, but kept getting distracted by LeRoi's eyes. They seemed so familiar…

_LeRoi_, she thought, thinking back to her mother's lessons in Ilian. _The king._

It was as if a floodgate opened in her mind. "I've seen your eyes before," she said. "When King Reynard of Ilia was crowned. My mother is his cousin, so we attended the coronation. I was very young, only seven or so, but I remembered thinking his eyes were the loveliest I'd ever seen."

LeRoi's smile had vanished. "Very well, Lady Isabella," he said slowly. "I believe you."

"What happens now?"

"Now," LeRoi said calmly, "I release your friends and you join me for dinner."

* * *

Nell's enthusiastic embrace when she saw Isabella alive and well was easily the best thing that had happened to her all day. But seeing Gavin bruised and bloodied after challenging LeRoi's men immediately drove that thought from her mind.

"Are you all right?" she asked, gently skimming her hands over his face.

"No thanks to him," Gavin replied, nodding roughly in LeRoi's direction.

"If you hadn't put up a fight, you wouldn't be in this condition," the older man replied calmly. "So you're Isabella's paramour. A knight?"

A muscle in Gavin's jaw twitched. "Not exactly," he replied. "But nearly so."

Nell, irritated by LeRoi's treatment of the three of them, began to rail at him. "What're you thinkin', kidnappin' innocent people on the road? Whaddya want with us, exactly?"

"Nell, it's all right, he explained himself to me—" Isabella began, only to be cut off by LeRoi.

"You must forgive me my rough treatment, my lady. My men acted without my consent. I should have corrected them long ago. I most humbly beg your pardon."

Nell's frown eased, but didn't disappear entirely. "There's no need to act like I'm some sorta 'igh lady. I'm just Nell."

"And I am just LeRoi. Please, will you sit with me at dinner? I should dearly like to hear more of your adventures."

Isabella wrinkled her brow at his way of speaking, suddenly more like that of a court-raised lord than a woodland bandit. She wondered who this man was and wished he would explain himself. Instead he turned and led them out into the campsite.

Dinner with LeRoi and his bandits was quite unlike anything Isabella had ever experienced. The men grouped around the various campfires with bowls or plates in hand and chatted merrily while they ate. A lucky few had daggers and spoons, but most ate with their hands. As she remained by LeRoi's side, she noticed that almost all the men switched fires periodically, socializing easily with all different types of men.

And different types there were. Isabel heard Kellinean accents as well as Idaarolaan, Ilian, and Speroan. She even saw a few dark-skinned men she could only assume were Pynterri, though she had never met a Pynterri before. Here they were all one group, one people.

"How does a bandit lord acquire so many retainers?" she asked LeRoi after observing for some time.

"There's more to what we do here than banditry," he replied. "We're the rebellion. We're fighting to take back the Ilian throne."

"Take it back? From whom?" If Isabella remembered her novels and histories correctly, thrones were only "taken back" if they'd been taken by force, yet King Reynard was assuredly the son of King Reynold. Her own mother, his cousin, had seen nothing amiss at his coronation.

LeRoi sighed. "It is a long tale, and one that would surely bore a girl of your age. Unless you can offer us aid, there's no reason for you to know."

"What are you going to do with us, then? Hold us for ransom?"

LeRoi shook his head. "While we need money for the cause, we need support more. The last thing I want to do is alienate a potential ally by kidnapping his granddaughter."

"So you'll let us go," Gavin growled.

"I don't know if I can do that, either."

Isabella felt her anger growing. "Why not?"

"I don't know what your plans are. You're a liability. Who's to say you won't go to Ilia and tell the king all about my plans, my numbers, my location—"

"I'm to say! I won't! I'm going to the capital to get married, and then I'm going home."

The older man cocked an eyebrow. "Why come to Speroa to get married? Unless…you're eloping?"

She stared into the fire, unable to meet the disapproval she was sure she would see in his eyes. "My parents don't want Gavin and me to get married."

When she dared to look at him again, he was smiling. "Oh, to be young and in love," he said. "I remember those days."

Isabella couldn't help but notice the sorrow in his expression. "What happened, if I may ask?"

"That is not a story to be told here," he said. "Come, we'll retire to my tent, and perhaps I can offer you an explanation."

* * *

Isabella and Nell lounged on cushions in LeRoi's tent, while Gavin sat on a stool at Isabella's side. LeRoi paced anxiously in front of them.

"I wouldn't be telling you this if I didn't think you could help me," he said. "As it is I have my doubts. Few of my men know the entire story, and fewer still are nobles. Still, I must trust you. At this point, you may be my only means of legitimizing my claim."

"What are you talking about?" Gavin asked. "_You_ have a claim to the Ilian throne?"

"The only claim," LeRoi corrected him. "I am King Reynold's only trueborn son."

Nell opened her mouth to question, but a glance from Isabella stopped her. LeRoi continued.

"I was sent to the Idaarolaan school as a boy with my servant and companion, Roald. Though I didn't learn this until much later, he was my brother, my father's son with a maid when he thought my mother incapable of conceiving."

"Your father purposefully had a bastard child?" Gavin asked in disbelief.

"Better a bastard heir than no heir at all," LeRoi replied. "Unfortunately for Roald, I was born not two months after he was. He resented it his entire life. So when the opportunity came as we returned from school, he overpowered me and assumed my identity. The men were all his friends; there was no one to contest him. He left me in an Idaarolaan village and returned to Ilia, where he was crowned king."

"And ever since then you've been fighting to get your throne back?" Isabella finished.

LeRoi shook his head. "I stayed in the village for a while. I met a girl, and we fell in love. We were wed, and we had a daughter, Anna. Then he came back and he took them. My whole family. He says they're his, and there's no one to disprove him. No one but us." He gestured around the camp.

They sat in silence for a long moment as LeRoi finished his story.

"What do you want us to do?" Isabella asked finally.

"You say you're going home once you've wed in the capital. I don't know if I can wait that long. Something is changing, and not for the better. Send word to Yurick. Tell him my tale, and whatever needs be told to convince him. I can write a letter to Hélène if you think it necessary. We must have Kelline's support, and you are the only one who can give it to us."

"Th' bastard deserves it." Nell's normally pleasant face was twisted into a scowl that Isabella found a bit frightening. She shot her friend a questioning look.

"Anyone who'd take a woman an' 'er child from 'er 'usband deserves wha'ever's comin' to 'im," the girl explained. "An' I'm glad to 'elp."

LeRoi's face broke into a smile for the first time since Isabella had met him. "I thank you," he said earnestly, "_all _of you. Welcome to the cause."

* * *

**Hey babes. I know. It's been a while. Basically what has happened is that I have finished part 1 of APOP (huzzah!) and am suffering severe writer's block on TITW (boo, hiss), but I crave attention so badly that this is what is happening. So. **

**These chapters were all written during NaNoWriMo last year. I apologize for them. But I am not apologetic enough (at least this time around) to actually edit them and make them presentable before posting them. I shall try to post one chapter a week (again, they're all written, I just have to remember) until we are done with part one. And who knows. Maybe by then I will have written enough of part two to start posting that. Or maybe by then I'll have gotten over my writer's block and finished TITW so I can post that. We're playing it by ear, folks. Watch this space.**

**I should also add that this part was one of the hardest I've had to write so far. Mainly because LeRoi was one of the original characters I had in my head, and I didn't feel like he was translating to paper (or, you know, digital...whatever) properly. I still don't. LeRoi is hard to write because he's the single character I know best in this universe. My entire NaNo of 2009 was his backstory (which I may post someday. But not for a while. If ever). So yeah. Lemme know about him, yes?**

**If you're still with this story, I'm sorry for the wait. And the quality. And thanks for reading still and drop a review if you would be so kind!**

**~Mazzie**


	15. Chapter 14

A week had passed and still Arija could not get the Mariginese man out of her mind. She did not even know his name, but his green eyes haunted her, their intense gaze nearly burning her. No one had ever looked at her that way, as though she were the most important thing in his world.

"Arija!"

She blinked and whipped her head around to look at Lahleh. "What?" she asked.

"You have not moved for several minutes. What are you thinking?"

Arija frowned. "Nothing." She could feel her cheeks heating, and knew Lahleh had noticed.

"The question is, which man were you thinking of? The green-eyed suitor or the black-eyed prince?" Her sister's tone was teasing, but her eyes were serious.

"It matters not." Arija turned back to her weaving, only to discover it a hopeless tangle. How long had she tried to work before she had drifted away?

"You are allowed to think of them, you know. Your green-eyed man may well win this competition, and then you would marry him. If he does not, you may well marry your black-eyed dance partner."

"I cannot allow myself to think of either of them that way. X is the fortuneteller's son, the son of the woman who has ruined everything for us, and this prince…he cannot be allowed to win, no matter how handsome he is or that he would have married me."

Arija's head was running in circles. She could not allow a suitor to win the competition, for then her sisters, and possibly herself, would be unable to marry, and she could not complete the fortuneteller's task and allow the demon woman to win Arefi's daughters, even if it would mean they could all wed. So what was she to do? How was she to reconcile the two situations.

Lahleh's hand on her arm brought her back to the weaving tent. "Do not worry so much, sister," she said. "It is not for you to concern yourself about all this."

"I am the eldest. Of course it is my responsibility."

Lahleh frowned. "Perhaps you should tell Father what is happening. Surely he can help."

"You know what will happen if he learns the truth. He will stop us from dancing, and we will not meet our end of the bargain. The fortuneteller—"

"Do you truly still believe she has the power to harm us?" Nasimi asked irritably. Arija wondered how long she had been eavesdropping.

"I would rather be safe than sorry," Arija replied in the same tone.

Nasimi rolled her eyes. "For all your talk of being the eldest, you act like a child sometimes."

Despite her annoyance, Arija felt a small flash of happiness. Nasimi was returning to her old self. Perhaps she would stop being so strange, and at least one thing could go back to the way it had been before. It would be nice to have one remnant of the past, even an unpleasant one.

* * *

The tent was stifling. Castor had come in to lay down out of the relentless sun, but the shade it provided was not worth the oven-like feeling that came with it. Even a hint of a breeze would bring relief, but inside the tent there was no such thing.

Unable to take it any longer, Castor rose from the pile of cushions that served as his bed and opened his satchel. After a month of travel and a week in the desert, his supply had depleted more than he would have liked. He hoped it would last until the end of the contest. He was already beginning to note tremors in his hands when he went too long without it. He could only imagine what would happen if he ran out.

He took a pinch of the herb and tucked it into his cheek. Not enough to bring visions, just enough to get him to sleep for a few hours until the sun went down. The taste of nightflower filled his mouth, but his mind was full of the image of Arija. Her face, more beautiful than he'd remembered it, leaned in close, and the voice he'd never heard except in dreams whispered, "I had to. Forgive me. I am so sorry." Her lips brushed across his forehead, and he wanted nothing more than to grab her and pull her lips down to his own, but he wouldn't move. Couldn't.

He awoke sweating in his darkened tent, his vision still burning in his mind. He had never had one so vivid, not even under the influence of nightflower, and he had barely taken any before falling asleep. Had he had a true vision, enhanced by the small amount of the herb he had consumed?

Castor rose and cleaned himself as well as he could, though water for washing was unavailable here in the desert. He was glad the sun had gone down. He needed a walk in the cool night air to clear his thoughts.

He made his way through the camp, weaving between irregularly placed tents, ignoring the loud laughter that came from them. The far side of the oasis, he knew, was clear of competitors' tents. It would be quiet there.

Castor was surprised to see someone already there, and even more surprised when he recognized her. Arija. He knew he should turn around and leave her alone, but his feet were already leading him even more quickly to her side.

"Good evening, my lady," he said politely by way of announcing his presence.

She jumped and scrambled to wrap a thick-looking cloth over her hair. "Good evening," she said shyly as she did so.

"You don't have to do that," he said hastily. "Really. In my country all the women go around with their heads uncovered."

"I am not from your country. Here it is considered most improper for a woman to be uncovered when she is not among family."

In spite of her cold tone, her voice rolled over him, the unusual accent he had gotten used to sounding wholly new coming from her mouth. He was sorry she had covered her hair— he wanted to see if it was as beautiful as it looked in his visions.

"I apologize. I thought you would be more comfortable without it," he said quietly.

"I am quite comfortable, thank you."

They stood in uncomfortable silence for a long moment. Castor fought to think of a way to continue the conversation, but nothing came to mind that wouldn't reveal how much he knew about her. Deciding it would be best if he didn't frighten her off by demonstrating his knowledge, he started at the beginning.

"May I ask your name?"

"Arija." The name flowed off her tongue with a beautiful trill.

"I'm Castor."

"From Marigina."

It wasn't a question, but he answered anyway. "Yes."

"Why did you come?" The sharp tone was back in her voice, and she met his eyes for the first time. Her gaze pinned him down, the black irises examining him with all the authority of the oldest daughter in a Pynterri family.

Castor swallowed and took a deep breath. "I was to be betrothed to you until your father dissolved the engagement in favor of this contest."

"Why pursue it? Why not marry someone else?"

"It's a strong alliance."

Arija cocked an eyebrow, demanding further explanation. What was he supposed to tell her? _It's destiny_? She would never believe that. _I love you_? That would require even more explanation, and it would lead back to his visions. She couldn't know about those.

"I wanted to. My father would have wanted me to."

She nodded, understanding filial obedience, at least. "When did your father die?"

He looked at his feet, finally cowed by her stare. "A few months ago. The night I received word of this contest, actually."

"I am sorry for your loss. My sister lost her mother not long ago; I know how it hurts."

"Thank you."

A distant voice called Arija's name. "I must go," she said. "Good night, Castor."

"Good night," he replied, glad at least that they had ended the conversation on a polite note. Perhaps there was hope for their relationship yet.

* * *

Arija struggled to slow her racing heart. Even as she hurried away from the Mariginese prince— Castor, she corrected herself—, she could still smell his peculiar scent, one that was vaguely familiar, but that she couldn't place. What had just happened? He had approached her, and she had attacked him. What had she been thinking, to speak that way to a stranger, a suitor, no less? The boldness that had begun all those months ago, when she had begged Arefi for another month to complete their deal with the fortuneteller, was starting to get out of hand. She had misled the fortuneteller, lied to her father, tricked dozens of men into taking the drugged drink that would protect her sisters' secret, approached her dance partner, and now confronted a suitor who had once been her betrothed. Where was the meek girl she had once been? When had she become so improper, so disobedient?

_The fortuneteller_, she thought. It all went back to her.

"You were with someone," Lahleh said when Arija reached her. "Dare I ask who?"

Arija shook her head. "It matters not. It will not happen again."

Curse the green-eyed man! Appearing at her side while he was on her mind, as if her thoughts had conjured him, avoiding her questions, talking about his father. She did not want to sympathize with him, she wanted to be furious at him for competing in the contest and haunting her thoughts.

Lahleh, perhaps sensing her discomfort, did not question her further. Their tent was already bustling with activity as her sisters dressed. The twins were already in the adjoining tent, ensuring the competitor would not follow them through the trapdoor. Arija dressed quickly and moved aside the cushions that made up her bed to pull open the door. For the entirety of the walk to the boats, Arija thought back to her encounter with Castor. She wondered if he had sought her out on purpose. Something about him had been off, a glimmer in those green eyes that reminded her of a competitor they had had in the past who had been quite mad. It had been all but impossible to persuade him to take the drink provided him, so fearful was he of being poisoned. He had not been far wrong, Arija thought. Like so many others before him, he had gone home empty-handed.

Arija remained distracted as she danced with X, losing the beat frequently and bumping into him or stepping on his toes. Each time she almost involuntarily offered an apology, and it was not until an hour later when X took her hand and led her out into the garden that she noticed how preoccupied she had been with her thoughts of Castor.

"I apologize," she said as soon as she and X were out of earshot of the others. "My thoughts were elsewhere."

He cocked an eyebrow, reminding her that the last time she had acted at all like this, she had recently discovered her father had wasted his money on a foolish competition. She shook her head.

"It is nothing like that. I had a…a disturbing encounter with one of the suitors. Nothing happened," she said quickly as X's brows furrowed in anger. "He was just a strange man."

He frowned and refused to meet her eye. Was he angry at her? Was he jealous?

Arija shook her head at the thought. X was her dance partner, nothing more. He had no choice in the matter, no more than she did. There was no reason for him to be jealous of Castor, or anyone else for that matter.

_He is simply worried this man might discover our secret and reveal it to Father_, she told herself firmly. _He does not want to be cursed forever._

"You do not need to worry. Castor will not win this competition. I swear it."

A smile flashed across the black-eyed man's face and was gone. He reached over and took her hand, his thumb gently stroking her palm. Something tingled through her, and she jerked her hand back before X could go any further.

"We should get back to dancing."

Without another word, Arija turned to go back into the ballroom, leaving X to follow her on his own. He caught up to her quickly, took her arm, and pulled her into another series of dances. She was distracted again, but this time for an entirely different reason. Now it was her dance partner who haunted her thoughts, the fire she had seen in his black eyes that set her mind to spinning. Had she been right the first time? Was he jealous of Castor? Was it possible he felt something for her?

She wished she could ask him, but having such a conversation with someone who couldn't respond except in gestures seemed wrong, somehow. He would be unable to explain himself, and she…what would she even tell him, if she was right? She felt nothing for him, nothing besides perhaps attraction. How could she explain that to him while he remained unable to reciprocate?

She felt X's gaze on her, intense, questioning. He was worried about her, she could tell. Worried that someone might have hurt her, that she was too upset to tell him everything that had happened. She caught Lahleh watching her, too. She hated being the center of their attention; she wished they would turn it elsewhere.

By the time the dancing was done, Arija was more tired than she had been since she and her sisters had first begun their nightly pastime. Completely drained, she curtsied in farewell to her partner on the dock and staggered up the stairs and through the trapdoor. She barely had the energy to pull her bed cushions back into place before she collapsed onto them, fully clothed, and fell asleep.

* * *

**For EVA, who wanted this meeting (though of course this was long written. But here it is).**

**Drop a review!**

**~Mazzie**


	16. Chapter 15

Aerin wiped sweat off her brow with the back of her hand. She reached over to help her opponent up.

"Well done, princess," Master Cressen said, brushing dust off his pants. "Improve any more, and you'll have to find yourself a new instructor."

Aerin laughed. "I doubt that. You're one of the best."

"And you've bested me twice now. What does that say about you?"

"It says little about me, and much about you. You're willing to let me win so I think I'm good. Now try me again, but this time don't hold back," Aerin replied. Princess she might be, but she hated being treated as such.

The weapons master shook his head. "I don't know how you can tell these things," he said.

"It's easy. I left you an opening and you didn't take it. Five times. Don't hold back this time."

The clang of swords echoed through the branches above as the two began dueling again. Aerin's mind went silent, as it always did when she was dueling, as she her thoughts disappeared in the flow of movement. The sword,her arms, her body, her opponent. That was all there was in the world, all that mattered. She loved nothing more than quieting her thoughts this way.

At last she slipped up. Her ankle gave, she stumbled, and before she could blink she was on her back on the ground, Master Cressen's sword at her throat.

"Yield," she said unnecessarily, springing to her feet as he backed away. She noticed then that her arms felt like noodles and sweat was dripping down her back. "I shall call that an end to our lesson, Master Cressen, if I may. Thank you."

He bowed low, his eyes smiling. He knew as well as she that her courtesy was only habit, that she would have liked nothing more than to yell "goodbye" over her shoulder as she disappeared. But instead she went into the armory, sat and polished her sword, and put it away before she climbed the huge branches that comprised the wall and slipped out into the city.

* * *

Isabella looked around in wonder at Speroa's capital. She had heard tell of it, even seen drawings in books, but nothing compared to the reality. From her vantage point far below on the forest floor, she could see little more than the wooden bridges that connected hundreds, if not thousands, of trees, but the faint noises of a city at least the size of Kellineton drifted down from the leaf-shrouded metropolis above her.

The road at ground level was crowded with caravans waiting for admittance into the city. If she craned her neck enough, Isabella could see a wide wooden stairway winding around the gigantic tree before her. Its highest steps disappeared into the leaves well above her head, and she swallowed nervously. Surely they didn't expect her to climb that?

Gavin squeezed her hand. "It's safe," he said, reading her thoughts. "They wouldn't let anyone go up it if it weren't. And I'll be right beside you the entire time."

Nell popped up beside them, back from visiting one of her numerous new friends in the long line. "The man in front a' us's been 'ere before. 'E says the tree's near ten yards across, so big th'inside's gone 'ollow. Tha's where the lift is."

"The lift?" Isabella asked hopefully. A lift up the inside of the tree couldn't be nearly as bad as clambering up the outside.

"Only fer wagons," a gruff voice joined in. Isabella didn't have to look to recognize it as belonging to one of the men LeRoi had provided them as escort to the capital, a man named Griff. While he didn't exactly seem pleased to be guiding two errant nobles and their peasant friend through Speroa's vast forest, he did like sharing his extensive knowledge thereof. After two weeks' journey across the country, Isabella knew more about the trees, herbs, animals, and climate of Speroa than she had ever hoped to learn. "The traders bring their wagons onta the lift, then climb the stairs themselves. By the time they get to the top, their goods is waitin' fer 'em."

"How do they lift something so heavy?" Even Gavin was fascinated by the logistics of the city.

Griff shrugged. "No one's allowed ta see the workins but them as runs it. Rumor has it it's done by a pair a' giants."

"There ain't no such thing as giants!" Nell protested.

Griff shrugged again. "I'm jus' tellin' ya what I know."

He turned back to his fellow bandit, ignoring the trio once more.

"Gods, I'd like t'see a giant," Nell breathed. "D'ya think 'e was tellin' the truth abou' that?"

Gavin snorted. "You were right the first time. There's no such thing as giants. He was just mocking us."

Isabella shivered, trying to imagine what a giant would look like. One of her books had had a picture of a huge, blue-skinned creature with long hairy arms and thick blunt teeth that it used to rip off people's heads. Had that been a giant, or an ogre? She couldn't remember, which did little to help her nerves.

At last their turn came. "State your business," one of the burly guards said.

Griff pushed forward and interceded. "These three are under LeRoi's protection," he said. "They will do no harm to your city."

The man frowned, but nodded, leaving Isabella to wonder exactly how LeRoi had acquired so much power among Speroa's citizens. His camp certainly hadn't been that impressive. But his authority worked, and she, Gavin, and Nell bid farewell to their escort and began to climb the stairs into the capital.

It wasn't as difficult as Isabella had anticipated. The stairs, though completely without rails, were wide and shallow enough that she didn't fear falling, at least when she was close to the trunk of the mighty tree. Luckily, the wind barely reached this low beneath the trees, so she didn't have that to contend with, but she still made gavin walk on the outer side.

Nell, meanwhile, scampered up the stairs like some sort of squirrel. She had no fear of falling, ti seemed, or if she did it was completely cowed by her lust for adventure. She called back down to them frequently, mocking them for how slowly they were moving.

"If it was up t'you two, we'd never see the city," she laughed.

Isabella frowned, though Gavin laughed back.

"It's not funny. She could break her neck, running the way she is," Isabella reproached him.

"She won't Come on, dear, she's right. We'll never reach the top at this rate."

Isabella sped up for Gavin's sake, though she continued casting furtive glances toward the edge of the stairwell. If she had to go fast, she could at least go safely.

To Isabella's relief, they reached the top within an hour. She was slightly out of breath, but it wasn't just the climb that had winded her. It was the marvelous city she saw before her. Speroa's capital was more wondrous than she had ever dreamed. Tall, leafy branches shaded the main square, where they now stood. Had it not been for the trek up the side of a giant tree, Isabella would hardly have believed they weren't on the ground. Merchant stalls ringed the square, at the center of which was a polished wooden statue of what Isabella could only assume was the king, Ethelaine. Her long hair flowed down her back, accenting the defiant look in her eye, her spear tipped with gold. The sculptor had been brilliant, Isabella decided. If the true king was anywhere near as majestic as her likeness in the square, she would be nervous to go before her, even with so innocent a request as permission to wed.

"C'mon, you two, ye're missin' everythin'!" Nell called, running over to them. She had already made a new friend, a jar vendor who waved cheerily at the girl as she went. "The castle's over there. It's th'most crazy thing I've ever seen!"

Caught up in the girl's excitement, Isabella smiled and followed her lead, dragging Gavin behind her. The streets were teeming with people. There had to be thousands living up here, suspended among the trees. How did the forest support so much weight? How did they burn fires to cook food? Where did their water come from? How did they keep from falling off the railless platforms? Hardly had she had any time to consider these questions when the castle rose up before her.

It was magnificent. As finely architected as any building in Kellineton— more so, even— it sprawled among the branches of three trees. Whoever had designed the building had been a genius; Isabella could hardly tell where the tree ended and the palace began. Bright flowers poured from the windows, banners and streamers waved softly in the gentle breeze, and the wood of the walls was intricately carved to tell the entire history of Speroa. Though she had seen little enough Idaarolaan carving, she recognized its style and wondered how a country like Speroa, which was nowhere near as wealthy as Kelline, could afford such luxury.

"Princess!" a voice called from behind her. Isabella ignored the voice as it got closer; no one would recognize her here, and if they did it would be easiest if she simply feigned ignorance. But when a hand grabbed her shoulder and whirled her around, she couldn't help a spike of fear.

"Princess, what are you doing out here? Your parents are insane with worry," the man said. He had the look of someone who feared more the punishment he would receive if the princess were harmed than for the princess' safety. He was too old to be an overzealous guard, so she supposed he must be some sort of nurse.

She opened her mouth to speak, but not before Gavin stepped between them, his hand on the hilt of his sword. "Leave the lady alone, sir. She's not who you're looking for."

"Who is this, princess? Another foundling friend? Won't your mother be pleased."

Gavin scowled, but before he could speak, Isabella placed a calming hand on his arm. "I'm afraid you have the wrong person. My name is isabella, and I am no princess, though I do most sincerely hope you find yours. You must forgive my companion. He's a bit…rash at times."

"This is no time for your games, princess! Your suitors are waiting for you at tea, the queen is convinced you've been murdered, and—"

"Hey! Leave her be, you old fussbucket. It's me you want," said another girl, jumping between them. Isabella barely restrained a gasp. She hadn't seen herself in a mirror for several weeks, but she had no doubt the girl wore the same face as her reflection. Her red-gold hair was loosely confined in a braid, and her eyes sparkled in a way that reminded her of Nell when she got excited. Who on earth was this?

"Princess! Oh, excuse me, miss, I must apologize for having assailed you so. You two look so exactly alike."

The other girl turned her attention to Isabella and let out a low whistle. "He's right, we are identical. What's your name?"

Isabella drew herself up straight. If this was the princess, she was the key to an audience with the king. It was time to let someone else know her true identity. "My name is Isabella Ivonson, daughter of Prince Frederich and Princess Hélène of Kelline and granddaughter of King Yurick. I demand an audience with the queen."

The girl blinked, shocked. "You're joking," she said. "Another princess, here? Who looks just like me? If it were anyone but you, Hobbes, I'd think it a prank."

The man, who Isabella thought must be Hobbes, flushed. "No prank, princess. I'm as surprised as you are. Provided she's telling the truth."

"Of course she is!" Nell chimed in. "Isabella's as noble as they come!"

"If you're looking for more reliable testimony as to the lady's identity," Gavin said, shooting a scornful glance at the peasant girl, "I am a knight of the court, Sir Gavin Handley, and I will attest to the truth of her story."

"Tell Ethelaine and Priss I'll be there when I get there," the princess said to Hobbes. "If they question you, say I wouldn't be doing it if it weren't important."

"As the princess commands," the other man said with a bow before disappearing into the crowd heading through the palace gates.

"We haven't been properly introduced. I'm Aerin," the princess said, giving Isabella a mock curtsy. "Princess of Speroa and all that, though really I'd rather just be normal. Priss is so overprotective, and even Ethelaine can't help herself sometimes. If I mention anything about the sort of mess she used to get herself into, she just shakes her head and tells me that was a different time. She doesn't remember what it's like."

"Um," Isabella replied, quite unsure how to respond to Aerin's seemingly boundless energy. "My name is Isabella, and this is Gavin and Nell. We're here to seek an audience with your…with the king."

"And you're really the princess of Kelline?"

Isabella opened her mouth to explain about lineage and inheritance, but thought better of it and merely nodded.

"What are you doing _here_, of all places? And without a huge escort? Did your parents let you come like this?"

"We sort of ran away. Gavin and I want to get married, but my parents want me to marry someone else. So we came here. Kelline and Speroa have always been allies, and my father and your…the king are friends. We thought if anyone understood marrying for love, your….King Ethelaine would."

Aerin laughed. "My mother. You can say it. It's not wrong, though she never gave birth to me. She and Priss adopted me when I was a baby."

"I didn't want to offend—"

"No worries. You're hardly the first. Every time there's a new diplomat it's the same thing: a few weeks of stammering and blushing until finally someone tells him to just call them Priscilla and Ethelaine. It's like they've never seen anything like it."

"They haven't."

"It's been over thirty years my parents have been married. They should be used to it by now."

Isabella changed the subject, sensing Aerin was upset. "You don't know who your actual parents are? The ones who gave birth to you?"

Aerin shook her head. "I never wondered about it until just now. But I'm thinking— how old are you?"

Isabella crinkled her brow at the question. "Fifteen. Until my birthday, which is…" It had been so long, she'd lost track of time.

"Next week?"

"I guess so."

"Mine too! And we look exactly alike, and we're the same age…we must be twins!"

"Twins?" Isabella wasn't a twin. Twins were cursed, everyone knew: one soul split between two bodies, making both vulnerable to demons. None had appeared in noble families for nearly a century, at least that anyone admitted, but among peasants the younger, weaker twin was abandoned to starve after birth. Everyone knew it was only a matter of time before a set of twins went evil. Why else would one so often be born dead and one alive? They weren't meant to exist.

"Of course! It all makes sense! Kellineans think twins are evil, so when the crown prince's wife gives birth to them…and his close friend can't have children…they must have secreted me out of the castle and all the way here!"

"That's an awful lot of conclusions to be drawing," Gavin said, shocked out of his silence by the accusation that his betrothed was a twin. His hand, Isabella noticed, had drifted back to the hilt of his sword.

"Oh, come off it. I can take you. I bet you're not even a real knight."

Gavin flushed and looked away without responding.

"Besides, twins _aren't _evil, any more than anyone else is. It's just a silly superstition, like redheads being hot-tempered. You're not hot-tempered, are you?" Isabella shook her head. "I thought not. You don't seem the type. Oh, we must tell Priss and Ethelaine. They'll be thrilled!"

* * *

**Sometimes I set a deadline for myself and then I forget I did so. Whoops.**

**Awkward character introduction is awkward. Again, written during NaNo last year and unedited. So yeah.**

**Review maybe?**


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